I push through the last few hours of work and make my way to the bodega around the corner from the R where I pick up a bag of popcorn and then hop on the subway to the park, where I hop off and walk the rest of the way. Every other block I pass I become more and more convinced that this is a bad idea. I like Mel—too much—and hanging out with her is going to make it even worse. Maybe there will be other people there. Not that I want other people there, but it would make it easier to keep myself in check if we have an audience. On the blocks I’m not convinced this is a terrible idea, I’m amping myself up to get her alone. I don’t forget about Lydia, and I don’t plan on doing anything. I just want to be around Mel and get to know her better than I already do. I think I know enough about her to know that I’d rather it be her that I come home to at night, but not enough to break up with Lydia and move back in with my parents for the next nine months. Because that’s what that would look like—and I’m not that much of a loser. I’d go live with Jack, but he’s got my niece, Hope, and no extra bedrooms. Hennessey’s renting a room from a guy in another house, and their plumbing sucks. Royal still lives with our parents, and the rest of the people I know are acquaintances rather than friends. I need more friends. Plus, Mel deserves a man who can do more for her than I can right now. There’s nothing I can offer her that she doesn’t already have.
Mel’s building has a door man—a fucking door man—who is nice but makes a point to tell me to be good to his girl. The fuck? Is there anybody Mel isn’t friends with in this city? The lobby and elevators are done up with intricate wood detailing. It’s a classic Upper West Side building that costs some serious coin to live in. I know this because Lydia likes to torture herself with things she can’t have. She’s delusional enough to look at the Upper West Side but not outright batshit and hasn’t started shopping the Upper East Side where the prices are even more ridiculous.
The elevator stops on sixteen. On the opposite wall is a glass placard that indicates Unit A is to the right. Everything about this building is luxurious in an understated way. The wood detailing, fine marble flooring, and spotless surfaces tell the story of how well cared-for the place is. It’s the kind of care and attention that costs money. I’ve never lived in anything this nice—never cared to, either—but Lydia has always wanted something better than I can give her.
The range in our last apartment had rust on it, and I heard about that particular offense often. The flooring was a combination of cheap carpeting and laminate, but it was clean and mostly free of stains. The new apartment has solid wood floors, a junior-sized stainless steel range, and a classic pedestal sink. The petite range’s broiler is broken, and the back right burner doesn’t work. The plumbing is shoddy, and we probably waste a couple thousand gallons of water a year just waiting for it to run clear. But it looks nice, and that was her requirement. Personally, I liked the last place better, but whatever.
I raise my hand to knock on Mel’s front door but pause. What the fuck am I doing here? What am I doing in a building that costs this much? Holding a bag of microwaveable popcorn in my hand, ready to watch a movie with a woman who makes me want to cross a line I never have before and never thought I would. My parents raised me better than that, but fuck if everything in me doesn’t urge me to just give in and go against all the bullshit.
The door swings open, startling me. I quickly lower my hand and pass off the popcorn to Mel. She takes it and smiles happily. She’s got on a pair of fitted black sweatpants that cuff at the ankles with a matching off-the-shoulder sweatshirt that cuffs at the wrists. Her blonde hair is thrown up in a messy bun, and she looks like she’s only wearing mascara.
“Gonna stand out there all night?” she asks with a flirty wink.
“Still blocking doors, Lulu,” I say, leaning in. Her cheeks redden, but she doesn’t move. She does that same contented sighing thing she did the first time she blocked a door I wanted to get through. “Still beautiful.”
“We need a nickname for you,” she says quietly. Her voice falls so low I almost don’t hear it. “What about Milo?”
“No, Milo is a cat in a Disney movie,” I say. “Besides, I like the way your lips move when you say my name.”
“Jameson,” she says all breathily with her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“You’re a tease.”
“Jameson.”
“You’re the one who said you wanted me to be a good guy, so stop making it so hard to be what you asked.”
“It’s hard,” she says with her voice lifting at the end. It’s not exactly a question, I don’t think. She purses her lips and a snort slips out. I smirk.
“Baby,” I say and place my hands on her hips, “I’m hard in ways that you’d never forgive me for.” I walk her backward into the apartment and softly kick the door closed behind me.
“Shoes,” she says. I nod my head and use my feet to pull off my boots.
“Bathroom,” I grit out. She jerks her head toward the hall to my right and lifts her eyebrows.
“You might want to lock the door. It has a tendency to swing open at the most inopportune times.”