Set This House in Order (16 page)

“Sure,” I said. “The one you worked for before you started the Reality Factory, right?”

She nodded. “Worked for, lived with, everything…Since we broke up, I haven't seen him or spoken to him once. I don't even know if he's still in Seattle. And it's the same story with the guy in Phoenix…and the guy in Eugene, and the guy in Las Vegas, and the guy in Yellowstone, and the guy in New York, and the four guys in Boston. It's always been that way with me: when I'm lovers with somebody, and it ends, they disappear from my life. And I wouldn't ever want that to happen with you, Andrew—I want you
in
my life, not a stranger.”

“Oh,” I said, both flattered and disappointed. But the disappointment was greater, and after a moment I suggested hesitantly: “What if…what if it didn't end, though? What if—”

Julie smiled sadly at me. “Love affairs always end,” she said. “Don't you know that?”

No, I didn't know that—I didn't believe it, either, though I was in a very poor position to argue. Stumped for a rebuttal, I went back to untangling Christmas lights; after a brief uncomfortable silence, Julie announced, with forced cheerfulness, “I'm going to the kitchen to freshen up my eggnog.” This time the hidden message was clear:
When I come back, we'll talk about something else.
Which we did; and it wasn't until later, after Julie and I had said our good nights and I was walking home alone, that it occurred to me that she'd never actually said whether she was attracted to me.

“Does it matter?” Adam asked.
“She doesn't want to fuck you.
Get that through your head already.”

I tried. I tried very hard, and I might have succeeded, too, if not for what happened the day of the Wednesday After Christmas Party.

Because Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve were both on Sunday that year, Julie had decided that we ought to split the difference and hold a combined holiday office party on Wednesday the 27th. Julie and I handled the refreshments for the party: Julie made punch, using up the second bottle of her uncle's scotch; I baked cookies and a chocolate cake. The Manciple brothers, meanwhile, were put in charge of the entertainment.

At five o'clock on Wednesday afternoon we gathered in the Big Tent for the festivities. Julie ladled out punch for everyone but me; Dennis booted up the Eidolon system. The Reality Factory only had two data suits at that point, so we took turns putting them on and playing Virtual Ping-Pong, Virtual Skee-Ball, and Virtual Bash-the-Piñata (in which you aren't blindfolded, but the piñata can duck). Finally, Dennis announced the “ultimate” virtual party game: Virtual Twister.

“What's that?” I asked.

Julie's eyebrows shot up. “You've never played Twister?”

She described the real-world version of the game, which sounded very strange to me at first. And the VR version was even stranger: in Virtual Twister, the colored circles weren't just on the “floor” but all around you, hanging in space.

“So you reach for these circles,” I said, “and you get all twisted up…”

“Right,” said Julie.

“…and the first person to fall over loses?”

“Yes, technically. But winning and losing aren't really the point of the game…”

What was the point? Part of it, as with virtual piñata-bashing, was to
provide comic relief for the spectators. But the main point of Twister, Julie hinted, was to give the players an excuse to roll around with each other. I could understand the appeal of that, given the right playmate—but that aspect of the game didn't translate well into cyberspace. When Irwin and I played our first game of Virtual Twister, our real bodies were in separate corners of the Big Tent, and of course virtual body contact that is unaccompanied by actual body contact doesn't feel like anything. Also, the version of the software engine we were using had a few bugs in its collision-handling subroutines. When the computer gamesmaster told me “Left hand—red,” and Irwin's eidolon was blocking the most convenient red circle, instead of reaching around I was able to put my hand right through him.

Julie caught this on one of the monitors and cried foul. “You guys aren't playing it right!” she complained tipsily. “Here, Irwin—let me get that suit for a minute, I'll show you how it's done.”

Irwin gave his data suit to Julie. She put it on and had Irwin position us so that our real bodies were the same distance apart as our virtual bodies. “Right hand—blue,” the computer commanded me. I saw a blue circle peeking over Julie's shoulder, started to put my hand through her chest…and met resistance.

From there on out, the game made a lot more sense to me. It also got more dangerous, as Julie's and my virtual bodies still weren't perfectly synchronized with our real bodies. Not all of the accidents that this caused were unpleasant—I didn't mind so much when Julie reached for a green circle behind my back and grabbed my butt by mistake—but most of them were: Julie probably could have done without me kneeing her in the rib cage, and I know I would rather have skipped the elbow in the stomach. The game ended with Julie going for an overly ambitious “Left foot—yellow” that knocked both my legs out from under me and flipped me hard onto my back.

“Ow,” I said.

“Andrew!?” Julie ripped off her headset in a panic, but when she saw that I wasn't badly hurt, she burst out laughing…and collapsed, gently, on top of me.

I decided that I liked Virtual Twister, even with the bruises.

We took a break from the games after that and went back to the refreshments. Julie and Dennis got drunk, and Irwin got really drunk. Then around six-thirty—it was amazing that it had taken him that long—Dennis took his shirt off. Julie, helping herself to the last of the punch, said: “You know, Dennis, that is just
so
attractive, you exposing yourself that way.”

Dennis, unoffendable as always, raised his arms above his head. “Gotta air myself out,” he explained. Then, after his armpits had had a moment to cool, he said to Julie: “So how about it, Fearless Leader? Since I'm
so
attractive, you wanna play a round of Twister with me?”

I think he was kidding; even without his back brace on, Dennis had a hard time fitting into a data suit. But Julie got this look in her eye like she was actually considering it, just to prove she wasn't afraid to take a dare, any dare, and I knew if she called Dennis's bluff he'd do it. It made me feel funny; I didn't want Julie playing Twister with Dennis, or anyone else besides me. Before it could come to that, though, Irwin bent over and vomited on one of the Eidolon headsets, putting a definite end to the games.

“Time to go home,” I suggested.

Questions of sobriety aside, Julie's Cadillac was in the shop again, so we all walked back to town. A light snow was falling, and Julie and Dennis, full of crazy energy, kept running ahead, catching snowflakes on their tongues and bursting into choruses of “Auld Lang Syne” (I'm not very familiar with the song, but I'm pretty sure they were making up their own lyrics). Irwin plodded along zombie-like, stopping every now and then to throw up some more. I followed quietly, keeping an eye on Irwin and trying to stay out of Julie and Dennis's way.

We crossed the east bridge and came to the intersection where Julie had to turn off to get to her apartment. I hesitated, uncertain whether to follow her or continue down Bridge Street with the Manciples. But Julie decided for me, slinging an arm around my waist and raising a hand to wave good-bye to the brothers. “See you two tomorrow,” she said.

“G'night,” Irwin muttered as he plodded on, not even bothering to turn around. Dennis, far more alert, watched curiously as Julie led me away up the side street.

“Hey, Grand Poobah,” he called after us, “what are
you
going to do now?”

“You only wish you knew, Dennis,” Julie called back.

“Oh yeah?” Dennis said, swaying a little on his feet. “Does that mean you changed your mind about him?”

“Shhhh!” Julie shushed him, laughing.

“What?” Dennis shouted. He cupped a hand behind his ear, as if he were hard of hearing. “I didn't catch that, Commodore.
What?”

“Good
night,
Dennis!” Julie shouted back, still laughing (but at what?). Then, tugging at my hand: “Come on, Andrew.”

“Um, Julie—”

“Let's run!” she said, giving my hand another tug.

So we ran, Dennis behind us hollering something that I couldn't make out. Then we were out of earshot, racing up the street in the dark, Julie leading the way, still laughing, pulling me along.

We reached Julie's building. Instead of heading up to her apartment, she ran out onto the front lawn and let herself fall, pulling me down with her onto the thin dusting of snow. As we tumbled over each other I wrenched my back again, but Julie didn't notice.

“God,” Julie said, coming to rest on her own back. “God, I am so drunk.” Then she rolled towards me, coming up on one elbow, and asked: “You want to come upstairs for a while? It's still early.”

“Um…OK,” I said, and Julie, hearing the hesitancy in my voice, gave me a long look, as if she were making up her mind about something. She raised a hand to brush a snowflake from my eyelashes, then caught a lock of my hair, twirling it around her index finger.

“C'mon,” she finally said, and stood up.

Upstairs in her kitchen, Julie poured two shot glasses of straight scotch. “Julie—” I began to protest, but she overrode me, saying: “Come on, Andrew, just one. One toast.”

“Toast to what?”

“To new experiences,” Julie said slyly.

So I gave in—I chose to give in—even though I knew I'd pay for it later. “To…to new experiences,” I said, and drank. Julie tossed her shot down in one swallow; I tried to sip mine but ended up gulping it as well, nearly choking on the heat of it in my throat.

Julie refilled both our glasses and led me into her bedroom. Once again she left the overhead light off, plugging the Christmas tree in instead, illuminating the room in soft multicolor. She plopped down on the edge of her futon. I squatted, somewhat more delicately, on the floor a few feet away.

This time Julie saw me wincing. “Did you hurt your back?” she asked.

I nodded. “Twister,” I said.

“Oh shit,” said Julie. Then she patted the surface of the futon behind her. “Come on up here, I'll give you a backrub…Come
on,
Andrew. I won't bite.”

I climbed on the futon and lay on my stomach as Julie directed. “God, you're tense,” she observed, as she settled over me.

Yes, I was: tense with fear and excitement, in equal measure. I could sense Adam up in the pulpit and knew he'd be getting scared too, scared speechless in fact. Which was good—the last thing I wanted right now was to have him making wisecracks in the background.

Julie ran her hands lightly up and down my back a few times, checking out the lay of the land. I tried to relax—but then Julie yanked my shirttail out of my jeans.

“Jesus, Andrew,
calm down,
” Julie said. “I promise I'm not going to hurt you. Now”—she gave my shirt another little yank—“is it OK if I take this off you?”

I wanted to say yes, but couldn't seem to get the word out of my mouth.

“OK,” Julie said, after a moment. “We'll leave it on for now—but untucked.” She shifted position above me; there was a sound of cloth sliding over skin—and then
Julie's
shirt came off, landing in a heap on the floor beside the futon. I let out a little gasp and jerked my head around…and was both relieved and disappointed to see that Julie was still wearing her bra.

“'Scuse me for being Dennis,” she said, smiling down at me.

She wasn't Dennis. Take my word for it: Dennis without a shirt on and Julie without a shirt on were two totally different things.

When I'd climbed onto the futon I'd set my shot glass down in easy reach. I reached for it now, which seemed to amuse Julie, who waited patiently as I drank. Then she took the empty glass from me and set it aside, pushed me gently back down onto my stomach, and ran her cool soft hands up under the back of my shirt.

The next fifteen minutes were, without question, the happiest and most terrifying of my life up to that point—which admittedly is not saying quite as much as it would be for most twenty-six-year-olds. I don't know how good a backrub it was, objectively speaking—I had nothing to compare it to—but I enjoyed it immensely, even when Julie dug her fingers into one of my bruises hard enough to make me groan.

My eyelids had fluttered closed, and I was on the verge of letting go my anxiety, when Julie said: “So, Andrew…what are your goals for this coming year?”

My eyes snapped open again. “My…my goals?”

“Yeah, your goals,” Julie said. Keeping one hand on my neck, she lowered the other to the small of my back, and brushed her fingertips across the skin just above the waistband of my jeans. “You know, like that toast we made. What
new experiences
are you hoping to have this year?”

“Ah…I…uh…”

“Don't think about it so hard.” She brought her hand back up to my shoulders, and bent so low that she was practically lying on top of me, whispering in my ear: “Just pick something. One thing that you've never done before, that you'd like to do…”

My head was turned sideways on the futon now, and Julie must have seen how red my face was getting, because she backed off a little. “Andrew?”

“Julie…” I was petrified that I was about to make a terrible fool of myself, but I didn't know what else to do, and there was no one I could ask for help—Adam had left the pulpit when Julie took her shirt off. I forced myself to go on: “Julie, are you…are you making a pass at me?”

She laughed, but not as lightheartedly as before. “What if I am?” she said.