The Bucket List Read online

  Shit.

  Viv flicks me a smile. “Ready?”

  No, no way, not now, please not now. “Born ready.”

  It feels like agreeing to a round of Russian roulette.

  Watching Vivian approach a circle she wants to break into is a master class in networking. It’s all about that first smile: confident and warm without being flirtatious or coy. Vivian uses her sex appeal more like a man than a woman. Never a trump card or a desperate bet, rather something coolly innate. Besides the point, yet undeniable. We slip into their circle especially easily, as Tom recognizes Vivian because Vivian knows everyone. “Vivian Chang. When was the last time we—”

  “Demo Day at YC, two years ago. You wrote a check for my friend Birdie’s black hair care company.”

  “That’s right.” Tom nods. “Which was a very wise move.”

  “And you’ll never have to buy your own shea butter ever again.”

  The men chuckle. Tom addresses them. “Vivian was early at Snapp, that start-up Pinterest acquired a few years back.”

  Vivian tilts her head, graciously accepting the implicit praise. Being early at a company—part of the team in the first year—gets you almost as much cred as if it was your idea. She gestures at me. “Guys, this is Lacey Whitman, a trend and sales associate here at Hoffman House, and on the founding team of my new company.”

  “Your first company,” Tom clarifies.

  “My first company,” Vivian says.

  Tom turns a piercing gaze onto me. “Fantastic.” He pumps my hand, introducing us to the others, the names of whom instantly disappear from my muddy brain. Except for one. The last man. Elan Behzadi. Equally famous for being a talented fashion designer and a moody prick, in the way only men can get away with. He’s Iranian, I think, medium build, with light stubble and dark eyes. His gaze is cool, unimpressed, and I’m starstruck and annoyed at the same time. I am out of my depth, and the water is rising.

  “. . . Millennials and Generation Z are increasingly looking for fair trade when it comes to fashion.” How is Vivian a half minute into our pitch? I didn’t even hear her start. “Outfits that are on trend and ethically sound. They want personalized attention and authentic advice without leaving the comfort of their smartphone. Clean Clothes is here to solve that problem.” Vivian looks to me. My cue to take over.

  I have the mutation. I tested positive. My mouth is tacky. I have no idea what I’m meant to say.

  Vivian blinks, and continues with my lines. “Consumers create a style profile, similar to Pinterest or Instagram, by snapping or saving pics they like: street style, celeb outfits, their own fresh looks. Our stylists curate a five-piece outfit exclusively from ethical companies that’ll look and feel good.” Vivian looks to me again, and it’s this second look, quizzical, even testy, that inspires a wave of hot emotion to rush inside me.

  Vivian keeps talking. “I’m sure you gentlemen know the womens wear industry alone is valued at $621 billion dollars, let alone menswear, kids wear, bridal wear. Clean Clothes is going to be a billion-dollar company by the end of this year.”

  The circle nods. Even I can tell it’s going well. You can fall apart later; you can fall apart later; get it together; focus.

  When Tom addresses Vivian, it’s with the gravity men usually reserve for other men. “You’re doing affiliate links?”

  She nods. “Consumers get a five-piece outfit, curated for free, every month.”

  “So, they get sent the physical product?” Tom asks. “Five pieces of clothing?”

  “No,” Vivian says, “for now, it’s just a virtual look. Users don’t pay anything unless they decide to buy the pieces we curate for them, which they can do by clicking through to the online retailers we’re working with. We’re looking at the sort of subscription model you’re thinking of after we scale.”

  “What are your numbers like?”

  “Really promising. We’ve been in stealth mode since last fall and have just under five thousand downloads. Of that, eighty percent of consumers have referred a friend.”

  The familiar words sound like gibberish. I lock eyes with Elan. His gaze has deepened, suddenly focused entirely on me. As if he recognizes me. We’ve never met. Heat washes through me, an unpredictable, restless flood. My heart is getting loud in my ears.

  Tom’s focused on Vivian. “How are you planning to scale? Build an algorithm to match consumers with products they’ll like?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s important we always have a human behind the scenes; that’s our special sauce.” Vivian turns to me with a breezy smile and What the hell? eyes. “Lacey will be training and overseeing the teams of stylists.” And even though I can tell she’s loath to continue, she says, “She has a pretty impressive superpower. Lacey can tell you exactly what you’ll want to wear to any upcoming event, which is why she’s such a perfect fit for Clean Clothes. Style plus intuition.”

  Tom Bacon, the man made of money, faces me. “All right. I’m getting married in the Hamptons in September and I have no idea what to wear. Driving Peter nuts: he’s had his tux picked out since high school. Do your worst, Lacey Whitman.”

  Sweat has broken out over my brow. The room has turned woozy, unstable. I frown and frown again, trying to get a grip on the request, stalling by making a show of carefully scanning his current outfit. “Who . . .” I start to ask. “What kind of designers do you like?”

  Tom scratches his chin. “Tom Ford: good strong name. The Brits know what they’re doing. Nothing by that talentless hack Elan Behzadi.”

  Everyone laughs, except Elan and me. Over his shoulder, twenty feet away, I spot Eloise Cunningham-Bell. An unwelcome blast of familiarity.

  She hasn’t seen me. She can’t see me. My heart is slamming my rib cage. I’m losing my grip. The music is too loud; my bra is too tight; my shoes pinch my feet. My hand is on my breast, pressing the soft flesh. I whip it away, alarmed. A hint of a smile tugs at Elan’s lips. He knows I am unraveling and he finds it funny. “September.” I lick my lips. “A September wedding.” A September wedding. That sounds nice. I’ve never thought a lot about weddings, my wedding, but now I might never get the chance, because my genes have painted a bull’s-eye on my forehead. “Fireflies in mason jars, and strings of . . . of little white lights . . .” My diagnosis puts me at an insanely high risk of breast and ovarian cancer, cancers that kill women, that have killed hundreds, thousands, millions of women. Women like my— “Linen . . . Fabrics that . . . breathe . . .” But I can’t breathe, because it wasn’t supposed to be me, but it is me: it is me; I will get cancer; it’s in my goddamned DNA. The truth seizes my throat, and I almost stumble.

  “Lacey?” Vivian’s voice is brusque.

  “Vivienne Westwood’s summer slim fit suit,” I reply, a perfect answer but I’ve lost it. I’m done. “Excuse me.” The crowd presses in on me, rendering me airless as I search in vain for the exit.

  3.

  * * *

  “Steph’s not here.” The guy who answered the door gestures inside the loft. “You’re welcome to wait.”

  Ordinarily I’d tell him of course I’m welcome to wait, and do whatever the hell else I want, because I used to live here, I’m OG. But instead I perch stiffly on the end of the old sofa. It’s not as comfortable as I remember.

  The boy hovers, unsure. “I’m Cooper, by the way.”

  “Lacey.” I don’t offer my hand.

  The boy—Cooper—is wearing a T-shirt that reads The Future Is Female Ejaculation. He’s my age, maybe a little older, maybe a little taller, with slightly scruffy sandy-blond hair and rimless glasses. He is the human equivalent of an NPR tote bag, and he is still hovering.

  “I like your dress,” he offers. “Very . . . modern.”

  Modern? Is that a veiled way of saying I look ridiculous? Or is Cooper a time traveler from the 1920s and about to ask me to take a turn around the garden? I can’t conjure a comeback.

  He’s keeping a healthy distance from me as he asks, “Are
you all right?”

  I nod.

  “Because you look kind of . . .”

  My head snaps at him. “I look kind of what?”

  He opens his mouth. I narrow my eyes. He changes tact. “Do you want a drink?”

  I fold my arms tight across my chest. “I happen to have received some very upsetting personal news.”

  “I’m sorry.” Cooper settles on the edge of the coffee table. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” He sounds so . . . amicable. “So a drink? I have whiskey. In my room.”

  The loft is the same level of messy since the last girl moved out, but there seem to be more things in frames on the peeling walls. Everything you need to know about it is summed up by the spidery writing above the power switch in the kitchen: Don’t turn me off, I control the fridge. When the radiator is on, it sounds like someone is trapped in the basement. The loft’s comfortable state of disarray feels homey even though Astoria, Queens, hasn’t been my home for over a year. When I graduated from entry-level to junior sales last year, I moved into a pea-size studio in Williamsburg (don’t worry, nowhere near the waterfront). I could barely afford it but it felt like the adult thing to do. Steph, my old roommate, replaced me with a series of hot, single straight girls whom she fell for one by one and who all broke her big gay heart, one by one. The boy is a smart move. He’s got real furniture—a desk, a bookcase. A far cry from the collection of wood pallets and street finds I had to pass off as decor when I first moved to the city. Above his bed, a framed, signed black-and-white photograph. It’s a New York City subway car. From the graffiti, I’m guessing 1980s. Four people sit side by side. A drag queen, an older Latina, a black teenage girl with cornrows, and a businessman in a cheap suit. They are all spacing out, bored and relaxed, shoulders comfortably touching. It’s intimate and a little funny and incredibly human. His bedroom walls have been painted a crisp light blue. I’d call it a winter pastel: fresh and soothing. This whole room is soothing. I sink onto his neatly made futon. “It’s always so weird being back in this room.”

  “How often are you back in this room?” Cooper scoops up some clothes off the floor.

  There’s a splayed paperback on his bed, one of those New Agey books written by a monk with a serene smile. The Art of Being Happy Most of the Time. “Any good?”

  He finds a bottle of Maker’s Mark wedged into a very full bookcase and pours two shots, one into a shot glass, one into a Cal Bears mug. “It’s interesting.”

  I slip off my heels and draw my feet to my chest. Yesterday those heels made me happy. Yesterday feels so far away. “Are you unhappy, Cooper-the-new-roommate?”

  “No.” He hands me the shot glass and settles into one of those absurdly large black office chairs. “Not overall. I just thought it could be useful to hear what the Buddhists had to say.”

  “To the Buddhists.” I raise my glass. “I hope I don’t come back as anything icky.”

  He tips his head to one side, curious. His T-shirt is old, soft, and I wish I was wearing something that cozy. We drink. I close my eyes. Still the taste of pickup trucks and off-brand pop and high school parties around bonfires where everything and nothing happened. As much as I try to retrain my palate, fermented grain mash always tastes like home. Like another life.

  Cooper leans forward, hands clasped. “So, what happened to you today?” He sounds genuinely concerned.

  I meet his gaze without hiding my fear. It’s the first time I’ve looked him properly in the eye.

  Maybe I should tell him. Maybe I want to?

  He doesn’t look away.

  The front door slams. “Lace?” It’s Steph.

  I blink and call, “In here!”

  She appears in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold, glancing between me and Cooper in confusion. “I got your text. What’s wrong?”

  * * * *

  We sit cross-legged on her bed, and I tell her about the call from Dr. Fitzpatrick.

  Steph Malam is a good listener, maybe from all those kittenish roommates pouring their heterosexual hearts out to her. She’s British Indian, which means a blimey, guvvner! UK accent and endless patience for ignorant Americans who don’t understand history or geography (“Yes, I can be brown and a Brit: there’s actually about 1.5 million of us”). Standard outfit: indie-band T-shirts, red lipstick, nose ring. She’d like to be thought of as a bit of a badass but her enormous chocolate-brown eyes fill with tears if she even thinks about YouTube videos of soldiers returning home to their pets, or parents accepting their transsexual children. She is bad with money, girls, and being on time, and is so conflict avoidant she will always eat anything mistakenly served in a restaurant rather than send it back (“I don’t want the server to feel bad, and honestly, Lace, these braised chicken necks are really yummy”). She makes me laugh and has a heart the size of a solar system. She’s my best friend, even if we’ve never stated that.

  I explain what I know, that everybody has BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes. When they work, they stop cancerous cells from forming. The problem is when they’re broken; mutated to the point they can’t do their job. Then you’re screwed. You’d have better odds leaving your keys in your apartment door and hoping thieves ignore you—for the rest of your life. That’s what this is: a broken lock against near inevitability of home invasion.

  My old roommate takes my hands and squeezes them hard. “It must’ve been such a shock.”

  “So much so that I ran out of the Hoffman House party like a total lunatic. God, I hope no one saw me.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Steph gazes at me. “How are you feeling?”

  “I don’t know.” I rub my forehead. “I have no idea.”

  “That’s all right.” She pats my shoulder. “Just take it a day at a time.”

  “I have an appointment,” I hedge. “Tomorrow. With a genetic counselor, at a cancer care place uptown.”

  Steph reacts to the word cancer as if I just said something unspeakably mean: a shock she’s trying to absorb without getting upset in turn. “Wow. Okay. That sounds . . .” I think she wants to say terrifying. She settles on “good.” She pulls her bob back into a tiny ponytail, something she does when she’s nervous. “So, what does all this mean? If you have an elevated risk, then what do—”

  “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.” I roll off her bed and move to the bookshelf on the other side of her bedroom.

  “What’s the average risk for most women? Like, five percent?”

  Thirteen. “I’m not sure.” I unearth a book from the piles on her desk, Fear of Flying. “I’ve always meant to read this. Can I borrow it?”

  Steph’s silent. When I turn around, she’s staring at her phone. “The lifetime risk of breast cancer in BRCA1 carriers can be up to—”

  “High, yeah, I know, really fucking high.” I sound angry and immediately lighten my tone. “Now is not the time for WebMD-induced hysteria, Stephanie.”

  “I’m not on WebMD,” she says. “I’m on Komen, something Komen.”

  “Just not now, okay, Steph? Not right now. Don’t you have any whiskey? Let’s get drunk.”

  “I’m just trying to understand what this all means.” She’s almost pleading.

  “Well, there’ll be plenty of time for that, matey.” I glance around, looking for a bottle of something brown. “DNA, you know? Not exactly a cure for it.”

  “Oh, God.” Steph’s hands go to her mouth.

  “I didn’t mean—” I exhale. “I’m fine. Right now, I am totally fine.”

  “But . . .” Her eyes drift to her phone.

  “Steph! Change of subject.” I click my fingers fast, searching for anything, literally anything. “Girl barista. One you’ve got a crush on. Any progress?”

  “Barista?” She cannot stop her eyes going to her screen.

  “Café on the corner. Tattoo of the horse. She gave you a free latte.” Now I’m the one pleading.

  “Um . . . yeah, I—went in the othe
r day and . . .” She shakes her head. Her eyes are filling with tears. My stomach crunches. “Lace, I can’t. I need to know what this means.”

  “Jesus, Steph! It’s not about you!” Immediately I regret it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Let it out. Your feelings are valid.” She’s coming for me, arms outreached for a hug.

  I back up, knocking a lamp. Yellow light seesaws across the walls. “Shit. It’s late, I should go.”

  “Lace!”

  I hurry back through the loft, stabbing my arms into my coat, circling my scarf too tight around my throat. Steph is behind me, calling for me to wait, please, wait. She grabs me as I pull open the front door. “We’ll get through this, Lace.” Her voice shredded and high. “Whatever happens, we’ll get through it.”

  I pull myself away. The inches between us are a chasm. “This isn’t happening to you, Steph.”

  4.

  * * *

  They say a good night’s sleep cures all, and everything feels better in the morning. “They” are filthy liars who should be unmasked and punished. I don’t sleep much or well. At about 3:00 a.m. I take a sleeping pill and succumb to a suffocating nightmare about turning into a werewolf that Elan Behzadi keeps trying to put in a runway show. My alarm goes off at six. It’s still dark outside when I drag myself into my tiny bathroom. The fact I shower before and after spin class is something only Steph knows about me, and this morning, I am determined to get my butt on that bike. I am in control of my body; I am its master. I put it through hell four mornings a week, and it rewards me by fitting into size 4 jeans. Hot water blasts my skin. I scoop out some rose-and-bergamot sugar scrub and circle it gently around my breasts. My fingertips swirl over the faint stretch marks and scatter of small freckles. Each breast sits comfortably in my palms, the weight of a small bird.