Room for Love (20 page)

“Don't go,” he says. “Please! You can't leave me. I'm tired and hung over and so, so crazy about you. I can't let you go yet.”

I grin at him. “I really want to, but we're shipping the issue tomorrow. It's like the craziest day of the month.”

“Pleeeeease,” he pleads, his hands clutched together in front of his heart. He's kneeling on his bed and he has a hard-on.

I call Steve and tell him I have the stomach flu and can't make it in.

“Shit,” he says while I hold my breath. “Okay, I'll have Sam and Spencer get on the text. You feel better. I really need you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Steve,” I say, “sorry,” and pounce on the gorgeous guy grinning at me from the bed.

Through my woozy post-tequila haze, I feel a pang of guilt about the elaborate deception I've constructed with Anthony and our fragile new romance at its center. I want to tell him the truth right now, but how would I explain now that I've actually moved in? I've pushed things too far for any explanation to make sense. He would hate me. That guy Hunter got so pissed off at me when I confessed to him the real object of my quest and I hadn't done anything as bad as really moving into
his
apartment.

“You know, Jacquie, I was thinking, now that you're moving into
my bed,
” he says, grinning, “we could turn the spare room into an office. We could both use one.”

“Isn't this all a little fast?” I ask him, suddenly uneasy. “I mean, wouldn't it be better if I moved into the other room and we got to know each other a little bit and sort of waited to see what happens?”

“Shhh,” he says, mashing his body against mine. I can feel his warm breath on my lips as he speaks. “Didn't I tell you how crazy I am about you?” I nod. “This is going to be fine.
We're
going to be fine. There's no such thing as too fast. We met, we dug each other, and here we are. Not to mention that it was like fucking fate or something. I mean, you came here looking for a roommate and we wound up, like, madly in love!”

I make an attempt to smile at him, even though I feel like a jerk.

“So are you gonna help me turn the spare room into an office or what?” he says.

I nod obediently as words run typewritten through my head: Not only do I have a gorgeous new boyfriend, but I have landed myself a spacious two-bedroom apartment in one of the hottest neighborhoods in town. Two bedrooms mean one for us, another for my clothes and my computer. What other dating strategy can yield that kind of unexpected perk?

I envision two desks placed side by side and nervously bite off a split end, anticipating the sting even before I hook the rubber band with my finger. I picture my desk at home, Serena perched on my gray swivel chair. Lying on his back next to me, Anthony takes my hand in his and squeezes it tightly. Who is this guy? He grins as if to say, “Stop worrying, angel, it'll all be fine.”

Besides sleeping off our hangovers and rolling around his bed, we spend the day wandering around Anthony's neighborhood in cowboy hats and dark sunglasses, dodging the hoards of disheveled twenty-somethings with no apparent jobs who populate Williamsburg. Anthony thinks I'm nuts for talking to every dog that makes the move on Lucy as if we were old friends, but says it's nice that I have an affinity for the world's dumber creatures.

“They're not dumb,” I tell him. “They're completely loving and trusting and their whole world is tied up in whoever is loving them right now. I think I must have been a dog in a past life.” Anthony shakes his head as if I'm nuts again, but wraps his arms around me and kisses my forehead.

“Hey, what if someone offered you a million dollars to get on the subway back to Manhattan and never see me again? What would you do?” he asks me as we're meandering slowly back to his place. His eyes are so pretty. “I mean, maybe I'll be nothing to you, or maybe I'll be the guy you grow old with. But it's hard to know now, isn't it? A million dollars.”

“Tough call. What would you do?”

“Take the million bucks for sure,” he says. “You're pretty cute, but I could make a lot of great films for a million bucks. Or at least a couple.” He laughs and covers my face in kisses.

When I wake up from our second nap of the day, long after the sun has fallen out of the sky, I hear Anthony on the phone and walk sleepily into the living room, where he is leaning on the kitchen counter, ordering sushi. I'm wearing nothing but a pair of his socks and boxers and suddenly have the urge to do the splits. I'm close but not quite there, so I hold on to the back of the couch and try, however inelegantly, to slide into my imperfect version of the agonizing pose. He glances over at me and says into the phone, to whoever is taking his order, “I have the sexiest girlfriend in the world.” Unlike Jake, this guy has no problem assuming the role of boyfriend. This is a man who digs me and wants the whole world to know it.

*   *   *

“Think about how much cash people flush renting two apartments,” Anthony says, gesticulating with a veggie vermicelli roll wrapped in a lettuce leaf that's between his thumb and forefinger. “In New York, it's financial suicide.” He swallows the last bite, kisses me hard on the mouth, and grins at his sister, who shakes her head.

We're at Anthony's favorite Korean restaurant on First Avenue, a sleek, dimly lit cube with creative cocktails and the best bulgogi in town, which is located a mere Frisbee toss from my apartment, which he doesn't know exists, having dinner with his sister, Suzanne, and brother-in-law, Bill. His big sister is a public relations maven in a gray suit who, with her petite, lightly freckled facial features and blond bob pulled back with a purple paisley silk scarf, looks like the heroine on a Harlequin Romance cover, perhaps the prim schoolteacher who's about to rock some handsome tycoon's world. Her lean husband has come straight from the gym and is sporting jeans and a navy fleece jacket over a Knicks shirt. “Me and Jacquie are the new urban couple, saving money, time, and a ton of needless agony arguing about whose house is closer or how many sleepovers before you get your own toothbrush,” Anthony says. “And hey, if we get sick of each other, we do rock, scissors, paper to find out who moves to the spare room.” He chuckles, throwing an arm around me.

“All right, all right, you can drop the pitch. We get your point,” says Suzanne, finishing off her third beer. “Guess who I bumped into at Fairway the other day? Ben Carroll's mom.”

“Scrawny three-pack-a-day-Ben Ben?” Anthony asks.

“Not anymore,” she says. “Apparently a couple of years ago he met this woman, fell madly in love, got her pregnant in five minutes, and they moved to, guess where—Bali, one of
my
favorite places. I guess his wife makes jewelry and had always wanted to go there, so they sold Ben's apartment and skedaddled, and now they run a successful import-export business and he's a dive master and she sells her jewelry for a fortune in Beverly Hills, SoHo, and Barcelona, and they have two kids. But the most impressive thing is this house they bought over there, this
gorgeous,
thatched, indoor-outdoor Balinese affair they expanded into an enormous compound with a big modern kitchen and a wooden staircase that winds down to a riverbed. It's fabulous. Just can't afford that kind of space over here. His mom showed me pictures, she carries them around alongside the photos of the kids, who are adorable.”

“Sounds lame,” Anthony says. “Wasn't Ben gonna be some big political journalist or something? He just dumped all that to do what? Import tiki dolls and incense? Big whoop. His wife must have a real nice tight leash on him.”

“It sounds pretty great to me,” I say. “Dropping everything and moving to some beautiful spot and doing what it takes to get by. I've always kind of fantasized about that when the city has gotten oppressive. I figure I could write anywhere. Anthony, you could make movies anywhere, too; I'm sure there'd be something interesting to document in Bali, or wherever. I respect people who just go for it, you know, team up and go out and conquer the world together. It's bold and romantic.”

“Well, apparently that's what Ben and his wife did,” Suzanne says.

“Ben, Ben, Ben. I liked it better when we were talking about me,” Anthony says with a cocky grin.

“Well, you might not have the balls to move to Bali, but you sure do like to take your life in your hands,” Suzanne says.

“Oh here we go, Hawaii and the mountain bike,” says Bill.

Suzanne nods and says, “Don't remind me. It was a bloody mess. He flailed over the handlebars at some outrageous speed, he was probably riding with no hands, knowing my brother. That's how he chipped his tooth,” she tells me. Anthony grins, proudly displaying his battle scar. “My brother lives for danger, and besides the occasional bump or bruise, he is good at everything he does, you will learn, and even worse, he never, well rarely, gloats about it.” My chest swells with pride as we all serve ourselves another round of food.

“In any case, Jacquie,” Suzanne says, “if he's going to shack up again, you seem like a good person to do it with.”

“Thanks,” I say, glad I've made a good impression. Shack up again, huh?

“It's true what you were saying, Tony,” Bill says. “I know unhappy couples who have stayed together for years just because they can't afford another apartment in the city. It would be their financial ruin. You two just might be the archetypal New York couple.”

“Fate brought Jacquie to my door,” Anthony says, provoking guilt so strong I start coughing on it. “I am aware that sounds hokey, but how else can you explain it? Babe, are you all right?” I'm coughing uncontrollably, holding a napkin over my mouth with one hand and waving away their offers of help with the other. As Anthony bangs my back, I guzzle a glass of water and my fit slows to a chain of sporadic hacks.

“God, sorry, something went down the wrong way,” I say.

We make our way up First Avenue past a crowd of “Olé olé olé olé!”-chanting NYU students. When we've almost reached Suzanne and Bill's car—they are one of the few New York couples I've met who have a garage in their Upper West Side building and actually drive in the city—Suzanne links arms with me and tries to get personal. “So, I feel it's my womanly duty to warn you that my baby brother, how do I put it, really likes long-term relationships,” she says.

“That's a good thing, isn't it?”

“Well, yes,” she says, drunkenly bumping her hip into a parking meter. “But in his case, I'd call it serial monogamy.”
Better than serial killer,
I think. “It's like a sickness,” she says. “He's with woman after woman for years at a time, but then somehow when it comes to taking the plunge, he always seems to find an excuse to get out. One girl started applying marriage pressure and he suddenly needed to focus more on his work. I have a sneaky suspicion the next one got knocked up. They started fighting all the time and one day she was gone. We all really liked that one, Natalie. Oh, and there was this one girl a few years back who wanted him to move in with her and bam, he realized he wasn't really in love with her after all.”

“Well, he and I have already moved in together,” I say. “Maybe it's different this time.”

Suzanne halts at her black BMW SUV. “That's what his last girlfriend said.” It occurs to me that maybe she's saying all this because she's loyal to the ex. Maybe she's trying to get them back together.

“I guess you really liked his ex-girlfriend, Natalie.”

“She was all right. I like you better already,” she says, swaying. The boys arrive and everyone hugs. As they're settling in to the car, Suzanne waves me over to her window and rolls it down. “Hey, I didn't mean to worry you. You're sweet and I can tell my brother likes you. Who knows? Maybe he's growing up. You're right, you did get him to move in with you. It's a start!” When they drive off, I walk slowly over to Anthony and he wraps his arms around me. As we come out of our embrace, we practically bump into Serena, my subletter, who's stepping out of the health-food store next door to my favorite café, where I've been buying my groceries for years. I open my mouth but no sound comes out.

“No way! Serena?!” This is Anthony talking. I'm baffled.

“Anthony!” she exclaims, and they hug each other.

“Wow, Jacquie, Serena and I haven't seen each other since, God, is it actually since film school?” he says. “Serena, this is my girlfriend, Jacquie.”

As she says, “Oh, Jacquie and I actually…” I take a step behind Anthony and perform the universal hand signal for slitting my own throat.

“Um,” she says, “I think we've seen each other around, haven't we?”

“Yeah, you look really familiar,” I say, finally letting out my breath, which I've been holding since her brutal appearance.

I have to tell Anthony, I just have to,
I think as they reminisce about the years that have passed since they went to film school together at NYU. I can barely hear their chitchat over the racket in my skull. No one in downtown New York has more than two degrees of separation from anyone else, if you ask the right questions. Anthony is bound to find out that I lied to him. He's bound to find out that I have my own place and showed up at his door because I was researching an article. He's bound to find out that the girl who starred in the first short he ever made is sleeping in my bed because I lied to him so that I could sleep in his. He'll hate me. I smile at their conversation when it's appropriate.

“You're doing a show with Will?” Serena asks. Will is Anthony's editor. “He's so talented.” New York is a frighteningly small town.

“The best,” he says. “I can't tell you how many times he's saved my ass.”

“Well, if you ever want to get into commercials, you should send me your reel.”