Trust and Safety E-Book

Laura Blackett

• Herausgeber: Verve Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 431

Beschreibung

** 'Wickedly funny, astute and brilliantly, terribly relatable... I could not put it down' – LAURA KAY **

** ‘Sexy, surprising, witty and beautifully written... A complete delight from start to finish’ – ANDREA BARTZ **

Newlywed Rosie has grown disenchanted with NYC. Inspired by Instagram ads, she starts thirsting for a rural life upstate – one full of beauty and simplicity. Willing to do anything for Rosie's happiness, her tech-bro husband, Jordan, acquiesces to her vision for the future, and they offer – well above asking price – on a beautiful, historic fixer-upper in the Hudson Valley. But when Jordan suddenly loses his job on the day they close the deal, the couple is forced to rent out the property's dilapidated outbuilding.

Enter Dylan and Lark: an incredibly attractive and handy queer couple who offer to rent the outbuilding and help Rosie and Jordan with repairs. They're living the life Rosie had envisioned for herself: hand-built furniture, herbal tinctures, guinea hens, and hand-dyed linens. Rosie grows increasingly infatuated with their new tenants, especially with model-esque and charismatic Dylan – to Jordan's increasing distress.

Whip-smart and wickedly funny, Trust and Safety is a messy romcom perfect for fans of Naoise Dolan, Kristen Arnett and Torrey Peters.

'The perfect book for reminding you about the dangers of believing what you see advertised on Instagram, Trust & Safety satirically pierces everything from idyllic countryside living in massive do-upper houses and New York influencers, to polyamory and pickle jars' - Stylist

‘Trust and Safety is distressingly smart, wickedly sly, and side-clutchingly hilarious… What a brilliantly observed and witty take on the sometimes absurd ways we choose to live. And how blessedly and wonderfully gay’ – Vanessa Chan, author of The Storm We Made

’What happens when we try to live the life that Instagram is selling us? This is the question that Trust and Safety hilariously-and poignantly-asks... It's a smart, funny, and timely exploration of what happens when our obsessions get the better of us, and when we discover that authenticity is not as authentic as it seems’ – Grant Ginder, author of The People We Hate at the Wedding

‘Laugh-out-loud… I felt like I was reading the version of Pride and Prejudice we all want – namely, where Darcy is a woodsy, stick shift-driving butch. If you want a book that perfectly evokes millennial sexual politics under late-stage capitalism, and in which all of us – gay, straight, cis, and trans alike – are read for absolute filth, then look no further than Trust and Safety’ – Rafael Frumkin, author of Confidence and Bugsy

‘Irresistibly hilarious and weird, sexy and surprising, and gently profound, Trust and Safety delighted me at every turn and delivered razor-sharp insights into our contemporary search for authenticity, beauty, and the perfect vintage doorknob’ – Jenny Fran Davis, author of Dykette

‘Sharp, hilarious, and thought-provoking, Trust and Safety is about the aspirations, absurdities, and longings of contemporary life – a story that will make you question your own life choices when you're not lingering over each pitch-perfect line or racing to find out what happens next’ – Jane Pek, author of The Verifiers

Leseprobe

Praise for Trust and Safety

‘Wickedly funny, astute and brilliantly, terribly relatable… I could not put it down’ Laura Kay, author of Wild Things and Making It

‘Sexy, surprising, witty, and beautifully written – a complete delight from start to finish’ Andrea Bartz, New York Times bestselling author of The Spare Room

‘Distressingly smart, wickedly sly, and side-clutchingly hilarious – I was howling! I simply could not turn away… What a brilliantly observed and witty take on the sometimes absurd ways we choose to live. And how blessedly and wonderfully gay’ Vanessa Chan, author of The Storm We Made  

‘Smart, playful and perfectly surprising, Trust and Safety is a matryoshka of tart observations that illuminate the strange and many contradictions of contemporary life’ Cecilia Rabess, author of Everything’s Fine

‘Laugh-out-loud… If you want a book that perfectly evokes millennial sexual politics under late-stage capitalism, and in which all of us – gay, straight, cis, and trans alike – are read for absolute filth, then look no further’ Rafael Frumkin, author of Confidence and Bugsy 

‘Irresistibly hilarious and weird, sexy and surprising, and gently profound, Trust and Safety delighted me at every turn and delivered razor-sharp insights into our contemporary search for authenticity, beauty, and the perfect vintage doorknob’ Jenny Fran Davis, author of Dykette

‘What happens when we try to live the life that Instagram is selling us? This is the question that Trust and Safety hilariously – and poignantly – asks… It’s a smart, funny, and timely exploration of what happens when our obsessions get the better of us, and when we discover that authenticity is not as authentic as it seems’ Grant Ginder, author of The People We Hate at the Wedding

‘Sharp, hilarious, and thought-provoking, Trust & Safety is about the aspirations, absurdities, and longings of contemporary life – a story that will make you question your own life choices when you’re not lingering over each pitch-perfect line or racing to find out what happens next’ Jane Pek, author of The Verifiers

ForPilarGarcia-Brown

1

The wedding was in a large hotel in Midtown East, on a cool afternoon in June that felt more like March. Birds trilled throughout the ceremony as though they’d been hired. Wedges of light fell into the hall at dramatic, elegant angles. The officiant – Jordan’s colleague, Noguchi – didn’t bring up the fact that Rosie and Jordan had met on Instagram, or that Rosie had been slightly drunk when she had first messaged Jordan, or that they had been together only nine months before getting engaged.

Rosie had envisioned a small wedding, outside, a mountain or lake in the backdrop. For the reception, she’d pictured a repurposed barn with live-edge tables, burlap runners, string lights, chalkboard menus, and mason jars. Maybe a jazz trio. But Jordan’s parents were paying, and his mother was not interested in burlap, reclaimed wood, or jazz.

She wore a dress she’d seen advertised on Instagram. The ad hadn’t been for the wedding dress – it had been for invisible braces – but the invisible braces company’s chatbot had given Rosie an answer when she’d asked: the model’s dress was available from a budget bridal start-up. It turned out to be so cheap that she doubted whether she actually wanted it.

Jordan wore a gray suit that matched his eyes. When it came time to read their vows, he pulled a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. Sweat sparkled along his hairline, and his voice shook as he read. He did not make fun of Rosie for her habits, like her tendency to waver for a long time before making a decision, only to abruptly change her mind at the last minute. Instead, he described how, when they first started dating, Rosie would stand on his feet while he waited for an Uber back to his apartment, because she didn’t want him to leave. ‘I promise not to go anywhere,’ he said. ‘You will never have to step on my feet again.’ The audience laughed at this, but Rosie knew he was being sincere. ‘You are the bravest person I know,’ he continued. ‘You asked me to teach you how to drive, and one week later, you were in the front seat of my Tesla, merging onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified, but I was – and am – in awe of your determination.’ Rosie smiled sheepishly at the audience, which mostly comprised Jordan’s family and colleagues. ‘I can’t believe I get to wake up every day next to my best friend,’ he said. A tear ran quickly down his cheek, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. ‘It is impossible to know how to end these vows, and so I vow not to.’

Rosie was relieved to see her mother seated off to the side, empty seats surrounding her, her misery contained. She was surprised her mother had shown up at all. Her mother claimed that social events gave her headaches. She had met Jordan only once, for brunch, a few weeks before the wedding, despite living in the same city. Rosie had spent hours picking the restaurant, changing the reservation several times, trying to imagine her mother at each one. Her mother did not like to eat at restaurants and had something against brunch. When they sat down, she said the sun was in her eyes, and when they moved inside, she huddled under a sweater. While Jordan made small talk with her about his seasonal allergies, her plate of eggs sat untouched. Rosie could not focus on anything except her mother’s predetermined displeasure and was so relieved when brunch was over that she took a two-hour coma-like nap afterward. Rosie’s father had left Rosie’s mother soon after Rosie was born, and her mother had entertained a series of short-lived relationships with men who had no desire to approximate a father for Rosie.

‘Jordan,’ she said, turning to face him. She looked at the notecard in her hands. Her scalp was hot under the lights. ‘You didn’t get mad at me when I blew a stop sign the first time I drove your car. You happily let me get you addicted to my favorite reality TV show, which will go unnamed. Once, when my sandals gave me blisters, you offered me your socks and sneakers to wear, even though that meant you were briefly barefoot in Times Square, a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy. I’m sorry, and thank you. I love you so much.’

The fish wasn’t dry, the endive salad wasn’t bitter, and the DJ didn’t play any songs that required choreographed group dancing. Along with the cake, there were platters of Oreos – Jordan and Rosie’s favorite – which were custom-engraved with their names.

Rosie found herself gripping her glass tightly as Jordan’s mother navigated to the microphone, ushered by enthusiastic applause, a champagne flute in one hand. She wore a tailored lavender pantsuit. Jordan, along with his father, his two half brothers, and his half brothers’ wives, all called Jordan’s mother ‘Bridey.’ Rosie was expected to do the same. According to Jordan, his father had first referred to her as Bridey around the time of their own wedding, and the nickname stuck. Rosie doubted it would ever feel normal to call Jordan’s mother Bridey, but she would continue to try. Every family had weird habits. Jordan probably thought it was weird that Rosie hardly ever spoke to her own mother.

His mother paused at the microphone and gazed at the audience. ‘Please set down your forks,’ she said finally, and Rosie watched as her mother rolled her eyes, picked up her fork, and stabbed her salad.

‘My baby,’ Jordan’s mother said. She looked at Jordan and smiled. She began clapping lightly near her own ear, indicating that everyone should join in. Rosie clapped uncertainly. Jordan’s cheeks reddened. The applause settled.

‘For those of you who don’t know me – I can’t imagine there are many of you – I’m Bridey Prawn.’ Her voice had the beginnings of an accent that suggested she was English even though she was not. ‘Thirty-four years ago, my husband, Cliff, and I welcomed our son, Jordan Carlisle Prawn, into our family.’

Rosie glanced at her mother, who looked like she was watching salt get poured on a slug. Across the room, Jordan’s father wore a double-breasted suit. This was the first time she had seen him in anything besides expensive outerwear. He spent his time taking long, guided excursions around the world with a small group of wealthy men, including Jordan’s half brothers. They partook in niche sports that all seemed to involve having their feet off the ground. He had recently invited Jordan on a hang gliding excursion in Vietnam, which Jordan politely declined, saying that he couldn’t take off three weeks from work. ‘My personal nightmare,’ he’d later confessed to Rosie. Unlike his father and half brothers, Jordan enjoyed indoor exercise. His office in their shared apartment housed his dumbbells, weight bench, and rowing machine.

‘Now,’ Bridey continued, ‘this year, Forbes named me number one in their 50 Over 50 list. And when that happened, Cliff turned to me and said, “Bridey, could you possibly accomplish any more?” And I thought to myself, I have so much already. I have two thriving, healthy stepsons; I have my own perfect son; I have a daughter-in-law on the way; I have a hugely successful business; what more could I ask for?’ She paused. ‘And then I thought: Wellllllllll… Jordan could move back home, preferably next door, and start working for my company.’ This elicited a wave of laughter. Jordan smiled and cleared his throat into his closed fist as the collective attention turned to him.

Bridey beamed. ‘But then Cliff said, “But, Bridey, he’s happy where he is.”’ She repeated this last sentence slowly for dramatic effect, as though Jordan’s happiness were a factor she had never before considered. ‘He’s happy where he is.’

Jordan was adamant about a mother-son dance, and Rosie watched as he led his mother smoothly around the mahogany dance floor. At the end of the dance, their attempt to kiss each other on the cheek ended in a devastating, accidental kiss on the lips, much to the glee of Jordan’s half brothers.

As the dance floor got rowdier, Rosie made her way to the bar, where she found her co-worker Alice and Alice’s boyfriend, Damien. ‘Am I allowed to go home yet?’ she said to them.

‘Your vows made us cry,’ Alice said. ‘I’m sorry I ever said it was a red flag that Jordan drives a Tesla.’ Alice was three years younger than Rosie. They worked as canvassers for a progressive organization called Rainbow Futures, which required them to stand hawklike at the corners of Union Square, preying on defenseless commuters, tourists, and farmers market shoppers, dispensing alarming factoids about the shrinking rights of LGBTQ people nationwide. They had the same position, but Alice worked part-time, fitting her Rainbow Futures hours first around a fine arts MFA program, then around her residency at a ceramics studio.

Jordan joined them by the bar, his cheeks red from exertion on the dance floor. In-laws and other relatives lined up to offer their suggestions that Rosie and Jordan would make beautiful children. Rosie could tell that Jordan privately enjoyed this genre of compliment. He’d always known he wanted to have kids. She had vaguely assumed she’d have kids someday, but ‘someday’ was the operative word. In her early twenties, upon returning home to her small apartment after a long day canvassing, when she felt most acutely anxious about her future, Rosie would remind herself that she didn’t need to think about kids until her late twenties, at which point she’d have a partner and a home. Now she was thirty and standing beside her thirty-four-year-old husband on their wedding day. But she still wasn’t sure, even as the details of her future were being clarified by everyone around her.

In the Uber home, she rested her head against Jordan’s shoulder. The car smelled like artificial fruit and cigarettes. She was relieved the wedding was over, because the preparation had been exhausting; in some ways, it had been more exhausting than her job, which required her to stand for hours wearing a vest and holding a clipboard, her message competing against car horns, rain, and men demanding to know if she was a lesbian. Her eyelids were heavy, and she closed them, craving sleep.

Back at their apartment, Jordan loosened his tie in front of the entryway mirror. Rosie slid off her flats and shook out her hair with her fingers. Jordan filled a tall glass at the kitchen sink and handed it to her. Her feet were sore, and the cool tiles felt good against her heels. Her wedding band was pleasantly heavy and clinked against the glass.

Jordan looked at her for a moment – long enough that Rosie thought he had something difficult he needed to say. She imagined him saying that it had been a mistake and that he was leaving her. But instead he kissed her, holding the back of her head in his hand. It felt like the real threshold into marriage, more authentic than the kiss they’d had at the altar. ‘I’m glad it’s just us,’ he said.

‘Me too.’

‘I thought Noguchi did a great job officiating. I really felt like he understood us as a couple. Didn’t you?’

Everyone at Jordan’s company went by their last names, as though they were on a soccer team. Rosie hadn’t taken Jordan’s last name for feminist reasons, but she was also glad for the excuse. She felt lightly humiliated anytime Jordan had to tell someone his last name. Inevitably the person would hear ‘Braun,’ prompting a correction. ‘Prawn, like the shrimp,’ Jordan would say, apparently unbothered by the association. He was an attorney for a successful start-up called Family Friend, which made a conversational voice assistant. He worked on Family Friend’s Trust and Safety team, which made sure the company wasn’t doing anything illegal with their customers’ user data. The devices could learn and mimic household banter, answer questions, and order necessities. Rosie and Jordan had come to rely on their own family friend, using it to play music, read the headlines, report the weather, and order toilet paper.

She set her glass on the counter and turned to face him, clasping her hands behind his neck. ‘Everything was perfect. And you were so handsome.’ She cupped his jaw and rubbed his stubble with her thumb. Early on, Jordan had visited Rosie at Union Square, where she was working a shift with Alice. After meeting him, Alice said Jordan looked like ‘a hot puppy.’ Rosie had giddily demanded Alice elaborate. ‘I can’t explain it,’ she said. ‘He just has a naturally sad, cute face. I just want to feed him meatballs.’ Rosie knew what Alice meant. Aside from his long eyelashes, his best feature was his hair, which was luscious and dark and looked good with any haircut. He had the broad, muscular appeal of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, even though he didn’t. He’d once been approached by a Manhattan-based company that sold camping gear, hunting knives, and felling axes, which was how Rosie had first encountered him: in an Instagram ad. In each photo, he held the company’s signature ax, called The Hugh. The stylist had dressed him in waxed canvas pants and a thick white T-shirt smudged with dirt and positioned him next to a tidy heap of wood. Even though the photos were staged, Rosie found them deeply erotic. Alice had helped her track down Jordan’s personal account on Instagram. Rosie drafted and edited a message to him, having never done anything like that before, then let the message sit in her Notes app until one night, after work, at a bar with Alice, she finished a second glass of wine.

I have never sent a message like this before and I hope you don’t find this completely weird, she wrote, but I saw you in an ad and think you are very handsome. Let me know if you ever would want to get together. She held one hand over her eyes and made Alice hit Send.

Jordan pulled her close now. ‘You think I’m handsome?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ Rosie tugged on his loosened tie and kissed him. ‘You’re perfect. I wish I could shrink you and carry you around in my pocket.’

‘I would be so happy to live inside your pocket. I’d build myself a little fort in there.’

‘You wouldn’t be lonely?’

‘No, I’d have you. I’d climb up onto your shoulder and whisper things in your ear.’

Rosie laughed. ‘What kind of things?’

‘Extremely romantic things, obviously,’ Jordan said. He lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He set her on the edge of the bed.

‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘I was just thinking, I’d like to shrink some stuff from the outside world to bring in, like tiny snacks or a miniature guitar.’

‘But you don’t play the guitar.’

‘I’ve always wanted to learn. And I’d probably have a lot of time on my hands living inside your pocket. Which I would totally do, if it meant I could be with you forever. I love you so much.’

‘I love you,’ Rosie said. She kissed him and was relieved when he didn’t escalate the kiss.

‘I’m so tired,’ he said. ‘Is that OK? How would you feel if we just went to bed?’

‘Thank god.’ Rosie rested her face against his chest. ‘You read my mind.’

‘That’s because I’m your husband.’ He wrapped his arms around her. ‘But tomorrow morning…’

The familiar chime of the family friend cut him off. Hey, fam, it said, couldn’t help but overhear. Do you need me to pick up a Baby Toy Guitar Beginner Musical Instrument Easy to Grip 17 Inches with Adjustable Strings Mini Guitar Quick Tune for Skill Improving Early-Education Preschool Children Toddler?

‘Absolutely,’ Jordan said, turning off the light. ‘That is exactly what we need.’

‘The smallest one possible,’ Rosie added.

You got it, said the family friend.

2

Three months later

Rosie had hoped marrying Jordan would propel her forcefully into adulthood, giving her life new purpose and clarity. But she was disappointed to realize that her life was largely the same as it had been before the wedding. She was no closer to understanding what she wanted from it. She and Jordan still lived in their same two-bedroom apartment; they still streamed the reality TV show in which groups of men and women dated without being allowed to see one another. The contestants sat in separate rooms, professing their greatest personal tragedies and sexual kinks through a purple wall, until eventually, after a few weeks, some of the men picked women to propose to, having never seen their faces. The men and women always performed absolute certainty about their decisions. ‘You’re my hell yes,’ one man said to a woman behind a wall.

‘You’re my hell yes,’ Jordan said to Rosie, kissing her cheek.

Rosie felt buoyed by his certainty.

Wedding gifts from Jordan’s mother – oversized mono-grammed plates and napkins – cluttered their cabinets. She’d also slipped in a baby bib that read Jumbo Prawn, which Jordan thought was cute and Rosie thought was pushy. Rosie’s mother had left the wedding without saying goodbye, and when a card arrived a few days later, they stuck it in the freezer to neutralize its message: I shouldn’t have presumed I would be invited to speak…

They were both addicted to their phones. Jordan spent hours each week researching stocks and gadgets and playing word games against his colleagues, while Rosie scrolled through Instagram as soon as she woke up, during her commute, before bed, and occasionally in the middle of the night. Sometimes she would close Instagram and then immediately reopen it, as if possessed. The app intuited that she was married and had started serving her content about homemaking and design. She was highly susceptible to these ads and influencers and had quickly fallen into a pocket of Instagram devoted to rural life in upstate New York, which had led her to make a series of impulsive purchases, including an eighty-year-old sourdough starter.

Rosie’s boss, a meek and hateable man whom she and Alice referred to as ‘The Egg’ because of the contours of his head, had recently stationed Rosie far away from Alice, so that now they only saw each other on lunch breaks. By the end of each day, Rosie’s ankles hurt; she could barely drum up the energy to make dinner. All she wanted was to sink into the couch and scroll on her phone.

On the few occasions that Jordan had suggested she look for a different job, Rosie insisted she believed in Rainbow Futures’ mission and that after all these years she was good at the work. She’d been promoted twice. What she didn’t say was that she’d tried to leave a few times. In her early twenties she’d taken an unpaid internship at a publishing house, hoping it would lead to more, but it hadn’t; she worked as a hostess at a Mediterranean restaurant that folded a month after she was hired; most recently, a year before meeting Jordan, she’d worked as a ‘Brand Ambassador’ for a sunglasses company that turned out to be a pyramid scheme. Rainbow Futures was the first job offered to her out of college, and, for better or worse, it was always available. Searching for a new job would require her to locate some inner passion that she feared was absent.

Waking at a small hour one night, Rosie found her thoughts encircling a familiar fear: she wondered if she’d actually chosen her life, or if she’d simply taken the path of least resistance. She worried that there was no solid core to her identity – that she was the negative space of all the things she’d never done, the risks she’d never taken, the questions she’d never asked. This fear was part of why she’d accepted Jordan’s proposal after only nine months; she was desperate to say yes to something and let it take her somewhere new. Jordan snored lightly, a thin breathing strip over his nose. She picked up her phone, dimmed the screen, and opened Instagram, which eventually led her to an ad for a virtual yoga class called The Anxious Sleeper. She fumbled around the nightstand, looking for her credit card.

The yoga class met three times a week. The instructor was named Claudine and had an expensive-looking poodle mix named Alastair. Claudine’s yoga studio was inside a tree house. Every window opened onto vibrant leaves, birds flew by during the class, and the doodle snoozed in the corner of the frame.

‘Pick a mantra, and stick with it for this practice,’ Claudine instructed in the first class. ‘It could be as simple as “I am here.” Here might be an emotional state or a literal place. Right now I am here, in Hudson, New York. But I am also here, feeling energized after a gorgeous hike in the beautiful Mohonk Preserve.’

Rosie scanned the expressions of everyone else in the class and found only earnestness. Both of Claudine’s examples of ‘being here’ were about being in the Hudson Valley, and therefore they did not apply to Rosie. I am here, she thought, in an overpriced apartment where the walls are so thin I can hear a neighbor loading the dishwasher. She had positioned her laptop on the coffee table and sat cross-legged in front of it. She inhaled, searching for a mantra, trying desperately to tune out the sound of a trash truck reversing on Flatbush Avenue. What turned over in her head was a line from a Mary Oliver poem that she had seen the day before in the Instagram bio of a Hudson-based light fixture company: Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? Rosie had typed the question in her Notes app.

Her life had been wild and precious exactly once. For three weeks between her freshman and sophomore years of college, she’d farmed in the Italian Alps. She had no farming experience, and she didn’t speak Italian. It was her first time traveling outside the country. She had agreed to join her then roommate, an environmental studies major who loved party drugs and who, a week before their flight to Italy, pulled out of the plan to instead dry out in Ojai. So Rosie went alone. On the farm, she met another American, Zoe, who had dropped out of college to travel the world, moving from one farm to the next, eating and lodging in exchange for labor. Zoe taught Rosie how to push a gigantic broom along the concrete floor of the barn and hose thousands of gallons of water onto cow shit until it broke down and disappeared through the metal grates. When they were done with the cows, they moved on to the goats, who needed to be milked. Zoe showed Rosie how to pull the milk from their long, warm, velvety teats. They buried potatoes, spread hay, and led newborn calves to the rubber nipples of milk buckets. The grueling work had been worth it for the calm nights, which were crowded with stars, and when the cows settled in for the evening, their bells clanged gently. Before bed they ate fresh ricotta with honey. In the mornings they dipped mugs into a metal basin of fresh cream and added espresso. The nights were freezing, and sometimes Rosie found herself in Zoe’s arms. One night, Zoe turned in her sleep to face Rosie, their noses almost touching. Rosie was electrified with desire but too paralyzed to do anything about it, so she lay still, her pulse thrashing. The landscape was mysterious and dramatic; some days they woke up to a wall of fog. Other mornings, snow, after a day of thick heat. And then one morning Zoe announced she was leaving in the afternoon for another farm, somewhere in Patagonia, to either hunt or tame wild cattle. And Rosie, meanwhile, would be heading back to NYU.

She had been so hungry for that feeling of wonder that she convinced Jordan to return to the Alps for their honeymoon. She wanted him to feel the awe too, and for him to see the part of her that had traveled to a remote Italian farm on a whim. But the farm no longer existed, so they settled on a nearby town called Cogne, in the Aosta Valley. To Rosie’s disappointment, Cogne was jammed with wealthy, horribly dressed tourists. Jordan’s mother had surprised them by booking them a luxury suite at a boutique hotel. It was the nicest hotel room Rosie had ever stayed in, but she missed the farm’s bunkhouse, which smelled like cows. Instead of dipping their mugs into fresh cream each morning, she and Jordan drank overpriced cappuccinos, their view of the mountains obscured by tourist shops.

She moved through her sun salutations, repeating the mantra wild and precious, pausing at one point to plug in her laptop, which threatened to shut down.

That night, while she and Jordan lay in bed, she opened Instagram, dreading work the next day. She started scrolling through posts from upstate homebuilders and farmers. The algorithm led her to an account run by a farmer who posted the daily joys and struggles of raising sheep in the Catskill Mountains. Gigantic, fluffy, stoic dogs fended off coyotes. Twin lambs were born daily. Some struggled to gain weight, but they were cared for tirelessly by their mothers. Life on the farm was dictated by biological necessity and natural beauty, according to the captions. The mountains were strewn with fog. This was when she saw it: a photograph of a cast iron vegetable peeler. Its matte black body was curved like a wishbone, the ends joined at the top by a sharp handmade blade. Entranced, she swiped through a carousel of images: the peeler in the palm of a strong, hardworking hand, each vein visible; the peeler creating a delicate ribbon from a carrot whose lateral roots were still attached; the peeler resting on a butcher block beside a wooden salad bowl, while many beautiful people gestured toward the food; a gentle-looking man with a beard, flannel shirt, and rippling forearms placing the peeler into a handwoven picnic basket; and finally, the image that made her realize she was looking at an advertisement: the peeler hanging from a shaker peg rail, its curves fully articulated like a ballerina’s pointe shoe.

She scrolled back to the image of the man with the big forearms, which offered the best view of the peeler, and zoomed. But the tranquility she felt was interrupted by a stream of dirt bikes tearing down Flatbush Avenue. Their mufflers popped and screamed. She left her phone on the bed and shoved the window closed. ‘Why?’ she said plaintively.

Turning around, she saw Jordan looking at her phone. ‘Is this a lumberjack?’ he said.

Rosie got back into bed and took her phone from him. ‘Maybe.’

‘Are you into that?’

‘Into?’

‘Yeah,’ Jordan said. ‘You know, like, into.’ He used two fingers to zoom in on the bearded man’s face. ‘Are you into this guy?’

Rosie laughed. ‘What if I am?’ She had been more interested in the peeler than the man holding it, but now she considered him.

‘I could probably have a beard like that in a few years. Can you wait that long?’

Jordan never seemed to get jealous in a serious way, and Rosie liked that about him. He didn’t mind hearing about her ex-boyfriends, and he was unbothered by the stories she told him about men hitting on her while she canvassed. She turned to him. ‘That reminds me. Alice said the other day that you have big-dick energy.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s, like, a particular kind of swagger you have when you have a big dick and everyone can tell.’

‘And I have it?’

‘According to Alice.’

Jordan played up his outrage. ‘What about according to you?’

Rosie laughed. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I do think so.’

‘So it’s like self-confidence? Because I think I’m a completely average size. Like six inches? I’ve never measured.’

‘This is exactly what I’m talking about. It’s not about literal size; it’s about how you carry yourself. You’re cool with yourself. It’s hot.’

‘Yeah? Honestly, I wouldn’t want to be any bigger.’ He reached over and moved his hand up Rosie’s thigh. She set down her phone on the side table. His lips were warm against her neck. ‘Are you on the pill?’ he said. He knew Rosie was on the pill. She took her cue to play out his fantasy – one in which they had no protection but threw caution to the wind, the heat of the moment too powerful to ignore. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We have to be really careful.’

‘I’ll try,’ Jordan said, unbuttoning his shirt. ‘I can’t make any promises.’

Rosie lifted her tank top over her head, and Jordan cupped her breasts, bringing his mouth beneath her jaw. Rosie thought of new ways to fuel Jordan’s fantasy, which she did not share, though she liked that she could turn him on so easily. ‘Should I run out and get a condom? I really don’t want to–’

‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Let’s just–’

She felt everything at once – his weight on her, his lips, the pressure of him inside her. His stubble scratched against her neck. She liked that. She felt completely pliable. Then came the image of Jordan holding the ax; she pictured him splitting wood until he became so overheated that he had to pull his smudged T-shirt over his head. Her chin trembled. She could see that he was close now too, and attended to his fantasy. ‘Pull out,’ she whispered.

‘I know I should…’

‘You’re going to get me pregnant. We can’t–’

‘Admit you want it,’ Jordan said.

‘I want it,’ Rosie agreed, pulling him against her.

He got up quickly afterward and made his way into the bathroom while Rosie lay in bed, twirling a lock of her hair. Earlier in their relationship, the real-life consequences of an unplanned pregnancy were clear. But now that they were married, Rosie knew she should invent new stakes to keep the danger alive. Maybe she should play the part of a one-night stand. Or a lusty colleague on a business trip. It was no secret that Jordan was ready to have a baby. After they got engaged, he’d told her that all she needed to do was say the word. Rosie could feel the ambient pressure of his desire intensifying as the days passed. He was suddenly interested in how old his co-workers’ wives had been when they’d had their first babies. He reached for her hand whenever they walked past a playground. Since the wedding, she’d been bracing herself for his suggestion that she go off the pill, and she politely tolerated his desire for her to be excited by any young child that crossed their line of sight.

He dropped back into bed and wrapped an arm around her. She reached behind her and touched his face.

‘Good for you?’ he asked.

‘It’s always good,’ Rosie said. This was true, even if her own fantasy – that Jordan, a lumberjack, had his way with her in the woods – was never the one they enacted.

‘Hey, family friend,’ Jordan said sleepily. ‘Turn off the lights.’

It was dawn when Rosie woke again. Her mouth was dry. She would have to be out the door a few hours later for her shift. She filled a glass of water at the kitchen sink and couldn’t resist checking on the sourdough that was midway through its rise on the kitchen counter. In the dim, fuzzy light, she found the humidity sensor Jordan had bought for her birthday. Seventy percent. Perfect. She lifted the cloth. It was beautiful, like a moon. She pressed her finger into the dough and the dough bounced back, as if it were performing for her.

Back in bed, she opened her phone. Instagram showed her exactly what she wanted to see: the peeler in the middle of an elegant dinner table. It was a barn dinner, the doors open wide to the mountains. A group of friends ate vegetables they’d raised from seed and harvested that day. They were a tightly knit, chosen family. They were happy, purposeful, and satisfied. It was a Japanese company, and Rosie wasn’t sure how much the peeler cost in US dollars, but she didn’t care; she would pay anything.

3

Smashed between morning commuters on the Q train later that week, Rosie held a disconcertingly warm subway pole and scrolled through an Instagram account featuring old houses across the country that somehow cost only $100. The houses were dilapidated but charming, providing an imaginary venue for Rosie’s growing collection of theoretical interests. She pictured stocking the cabinets with pickled vegetables she’d grown herself – okra, kohlrabi, and daikon. Her loom would be stationed by the woodstove. As she scrolled, the fantasy shifted. Sometimes the pickles were tea blends from her herb garden. Sometimes the loom was a poetry chapbook or pair of shearing scissors. Maybe she would have her own writing room. She knew the thought was ridiculous; she’d taken a couple of creative writing classes at NYU, but her poems were not good enough for that sort of luxury and seriousness. Her workshop leader – a popular, scruffy poet – had been mildly encouraging but clearly preferred other students in the class. He quoted lines from their craft assignments, but never Rosie’s, and during a one-on-one meeting with him, he confused her with a deeply untalented writer in the class who always used the word ‘soul’ in her poems. Still, Rosie felt that if only she surrounded herself with authentic beauty, she could unearth a latent talent.

As the train pulled into Canal Street, she tapped on the Instagram account’s most recent post: a former apple cider processing plant with a sagging roof. sold was stamped over the image. The former cider plant now had its own hashtag, which detailed its conversion into an inn that the new owners planned to use for artist residencies. Envy gripped her. She scrolled through months of posts and saw that most buildings had sold. A general store, a barn, a tannery, all gone.

A pack of young campers in matching T-shirts boarded the train and began shrieking about a rat in the car. Only distantly aware of the pandemonium, Rosie lifted a foot and continued scrolling. She scrolled as she climbed the Union Square subway steps, all the way to her station at the northwest corner. Reluctantly she pocketed her phone, put on her vest, and singled out a commuter: a man in a three-piece suit who strolled toward her, both hands in his pockets, no AirPods that Rosie could see, nothing to claim his attention. ‘Do you care about the future of LGBTQIA+ people?’ she said brightly. He blinked at her. ‘No,’ he said politely. ‘I’m afraid I don’t. But you are incredibly attractive!’

‘OK, thank you!’ Rosie said, already scoping out her next targets: two students – New School, she thought – holding hands and walking toward her. They stopped in front of her to kiss goodbye, either apathetic or oblivious to her. Their kiss was a drawn-out preface to a long embrace. Rosie checked her watch, then smiled in a random direction, waiting for the hug to end. Students either didn’t have money or they pretended not to, but she would try. Finally they separated. One of them descended the subway stairs, and the other continued toward Rosie, who stepped in to make her pitch. ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling. ‘Do you have–’

‘No.’

Rosie couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten a donation before 10:00 am. She once brought this up with her boss, suggesting he could improve morale by dispatching canvassers later in the day, but he told her that half the job was brand recognition. You have to see something seven times before you buy it, he said, digging a pinkie into his ear.

Rosie knew this was not true. She could not get commuters to care, no matter how many times they saw her. The longest conversations she had were with men who asked for her number, thinking they were original, and who became hostile when she declined. One man told her he would donate on a recurring basis if she let him take a photo of her bare foot. But mostly, she was aggressively avoided, which made her feel lonely. The rare person unable to escape her opener (‘Do you care about the future of the LGBTQIA+ community?’) looked trapped and desperate when she recited her script. She was well-versed in the fugues of lies people told, most popularly, ‘I’m already a monthly contributor.’ Some days she thought about not approaching repeat commuters, as there was no use, but her boss showed up unannounced at a random time each day to check on everyone’s progress. He had once caught her sitting down while she finished her morning coffee and had gestured grandly with both hands for her to stand, as though he were an orchestra conductor.

By 11:00 am, new parents were out pushing their babies around in strollers. Rosie sometimes had luck with them. They were nicer than the commuters, or too tired to fully resist, and she had an easier way to start a conversation.

‘Cute baby,’ Rosie said to one mother. She peered into the stroller. The baby had an overheated face and a tuft of brown hair. He looked up at Rosie blankly and bounced a socked foot on the stroller handle.

‘No,’ the baby’s mother said, pushing past her.

Canvassers were allowed two fifteen-minute breaks plus a lunch break, and because they were required to be on the street during the lunch rush, Rosie and Alice took theirs in the late afternoon.

Rosie brought her bagged lunch to a loading dock on Sixteenth Street. While she waited for Alice, she reopened Instagram to look at the remodeled cider house. The owners had turned a storage room into a ‘summer kitchen,’ which was bright and airy. A heap of freshly cut flowers sat on the countertop. She swiped to see a close-up of a woman’s hands cutting a stem at an angle, then the final arrangement, bursting forth from a beautiful ceramic vase. The couple had salvaged the original cider press, which they displayed like a sculpture on a wooden platform against the far wall of the kitchen.

‘Rosie?’ Alice called, rounding the corner, panic coloring her voice. She shaded her eyes and looked around.

‘Hey,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m right here.’

Alice’s expression turned from relief to exasperation. ‘OK, could you have picked a sketchier location? I thought you got kidnapped.’

They had been tracking each other’s locations for years, ever since a man hinted he would be taking Rosie home with him after he signed his monthly contributor paperwork. Alice put her palms flat on the loading dock to hoist herself up next to Rosie. ‘Oh, ew!’ she cried, shaking liquid off her hand. ‘Is that pee? It smells like pee!’ She let out a low wail, her face a mask of disgust.

‘Just calm down and let me find a napkin,’ Rosie said, trying not to laugh. She looked into her lunch bag.

‘Not funny!’ Alice cried, and Rosie bit her lip. She couldn’t find a napkin.

‘OK, here, how about this?’ she said, taking off her vest. She poured some of her water over Alice’s hand and used the vest to dry it off. ‘And here,’ she said, riffling through her backpack. ‘I have sanitizer.’

‘I hate this city,’ Alice said, rubbing the sanitizer into her hands. ‘If there were a bingo card for coming into contact with strangers’ bodily fluids, I’d fucking win. Why do we live here?’

‘I honestly don’t know,’ Rosie said, opening her lunch: an overpriced, soft turkey sandwich from Pret. ‘Do you ever think about moving?’

‘Like where, LA?’ Alice unscrewed the cap of her water bottle. ‘If you move to LA and leave me alone with the Egg I’ll have to kill you.’

‘No,’ Rosie said. Someone began laying on their horn, and she had to shout. ‘More like, I don’t know, the country.’ She was trying to sound casual, as though the thought hadn’t been preoccupying her for weeks.

‘The country?’

‘Look at this,’ Rosie said, handing her phone to Alice. She felt like she was giving Alice something as fragile and precious as a robin’s egg. She took a bite of her sandwich and watched Alice swipe. The honking briefly stopped, and the two drivers emerged from their cars and began shouting at each other, leading to more honking from surrounding cars.

‘OK, yes, this is better than Ativan,’ Alice said, swiping. ‘Tin roof, check. Woodstove, check. Yes, this is exactly what I need.’ She closed her eyes and inhaled theatrically. ‘I’m in Rhinebeck; I’m growing vegetables; I’m wrapping myself in a wool blanket; I’m stepping on a crunchy leaf; I’m pulling an apple pie from one of those old ovens that you’re not allowed to turn off; I have unlimited money and yet few worldly possessions; I’m trading kombucha mothers with a neighbor; my hand is not covered in human pee.’

She handed back Rosie’s phone. ‘You’re right. Let’s do it. Let’s leave. We can be neighbors. You can bake pies and leave them on the windowsill for me. And I’ll… I don’t know–’

‘You’ll open a ceramics studio in town!’

‘We could have a little compound. I know a queer polycule that went in on a fixer-upper Victorian mansion in the Poconos and now they mill all their own grains.’

They finished their sandwiches, and Rosie tried to focus on what Alice was talking about – something about a slip casting course she had signed up for – but her thoughts kept yanking her back to the Hudson Valley.

Back at her station, she was charged with possibility. Her phone buzzed in her pocket: a text from Alice. She’d sent three apple pie emojis and an Instagram post of a real estate listing for a two-bedroom saltbox near a creek, three hours north of the city. The bathroom tiles had been hand-painted by a local celebrated children’s book illustrator.

The sun was relentless that day, and there was no cloud cover. In the last hour of her shift, Rosie was damp with sweat, her shirt clinging to her. Fragments of the listing sustained her as she approached strangers with manufactured enthusiasm. ‘Do you care about the queer community?’ she asked a young woman jogging by. The woman slowed her pace and took out one of her AirPods. She looked Rosie in the eyes. This was a good sign, Rosie knew, and she’d learned to double down on her message quickly. A window like this only lasted a moment.

‘I do, I just–’ the woman said, looking guilt-stricken, jogging in place. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s not that I don’t – I just can’t really afford it right now. I mean, I could, I guess. I guess I just don’t want to. But I don’t want you to think I’m a bad person because – because I volunteer sometimes and do mutual aid. And my half brother is gay and I really love him. It’s just, like, this isn’t–’

‘It’s OK,’ Rosie said, desperate for the interaction to end. ‘Really, don’t worry about it.’

She sent a listing to Alice for an A-frame cabin with a Smeg refrigerator and skylights that bathed a lofted bedroom in sunlight. Alice sent back a heartbreak emoji.

She caught the eye of a silver-haired man in a tracksuit who seemed eager to talk to her about recently passed anti-LGBTQ legislation. ‘I just don’t see how those motherfuckers can sleep at night,’ he said.

‘I know, it’s terrible. For just ten dollars a month you can–’

‘I mean, what do they think they’re going to accomplish? They’re evil, evil people,’ he said.

‘I hear you,’ Rosie said. ‘Believe me. Together we can stop–’

‘Sick,’ he said. ‘They’re sick.’

‘I know how powerless you can feel. But what if I told you you weren’t? That you could take one small step today to make a difference?’

‘They need to be punished,’ the man said.

‘Punished’ was a strong word, Rosie thought.

‘You need to punish them.’

It wasn’t until then that Rosie noticed his erection pressing against his track pants.

‘Do you want to sign up for a monthly donation?’ she said flatly.

‘I already contribute,’ he said, walking away.

Rosie’s phone buzzed and she opened another text from Alice. It was the best listing she’d seen yet: an 1800s farmhouse in a Hudson Valley hamlet called Scout Hill, a hundred miles from the city. The house was so gorgeous that she sat on a bench to look it over, angling herself so that her shadow fell over her phone. According to the listing, the house was a historic stone building set on thirty acres. The property included several outbuildings, which had served as utility structures for the farm and living quarters for groundskeepers. The smaller structures dotted the landscape in varying levels of charming disrepair. One of them could be a studio, where she’d make knitwear or beeswax candles. Her heart pounded. She thought of the vegetable peeler and opened a text to Jordan.

Did any packages arrive for me?

Yeah, a tiny box from Japan? he responded. What is it?

Rosie’s fingers trembled over the keys.

Then another text appeared on her screen. Phone away, please and thank you!

She looked up and saw her boss across the park, smiling at her tepidly. She held eye contact with him as she stood. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of her face. Her water bottle was empty. She saw herself from above, a magnet repelling every person around her. She looked at the listing again. Another text arrived from her boss. Not sure if you saw above text? Thanks!

He raised his hands in the air in a display of helpless bewilderment.

I’m done, Rosie texted, her face flushing. I quit. She pulled off her vest, stuffed it into the nearest trash can, and descended into the subway.

4

Jordan was on the phone when Rosie got home. ‘I agree the optics are really bad,’ he said as she gently closed the door behind her, ‘but this is really just a matter of an engineering tweak.’ Seeing her, he raised his eyebrows, mouthed Hi, and mimed shooting himself in the head. A small box sat on the entry table, wrapped in brown butcher paper. She picked it up and ran a finger beneath its folded edge.

‘Totally, totally,’ Jordan said, pacing the living room.

Inside the box, the peeler rested at the center of a nest of kraft paper. It was even better than she had envisioned, its handle matte and elegantly bent. She held it in her palm like a baby bird.

‘Well of course it’s unfortunate,’ Jordan said with a short laugh. ‘No one’s disputing that – but we’re new on the scene, and obviously there are going to be kinks along the way.’

Rosie set down the peeler delicately, then pulled out her phone and opened the farmhouse listing Alice had sent her.

‘Noguchi, I’m telling you, this is totally fixable. They just need to hire a few coders, or whatever, to fix the glitch. Maybe there’s a little settlement, and we move forward.’

She zoomed in on a photo of a clawfoot tub, the only fixture in one of the palatial rooms aside from a fireplace. Looking at it was like learning the word for an unnamed feeling she’d had her whole life.

‘So we’ll circle back tomorrow,’ Jordan said. ‘Beautiful. Thank you.’ He hung up.

Rosie looked at him. ‘That sounded tense.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Can I tell you what’s going on, and you tell me how bad it sounds?’

‘OK.’

‘So… we got this kind of crazy customer complaint. Basically… this family bought a family friend. And out of nowhere, I guess, the family friend started calling the wife the D-word.’

‘What?’ Rosie said, matching his hushed tone. ‘It called her a dick?’

‘No, the other D-word.’ Jordan looked at her meaningfully.

Rosie racked her brain for another inappropriate D-word.

‘Dyke!’ Jordan hissed.

‘What? The robot called the mom a dyke?’

‘Shh,’ Jordan said, glancing around. ‘Shit. What a mess. Yes. Actually, it called her a hot dyke.’

Rosie brought her palm to her mouth. ‘Why did it call her that?’