The e-mail from Peach kills my Macy’s buzz. What if you back out on me? What if we work together and we don’t get along? What if you need to have #girlsnight on your nights off and I never get to go shopping with you again? Ethan would never bail on me; he brought three copies of his résumé. “You seem awfully busy, Joe,” he says, perky. “If you want me to go I can come back in a little while! My day’s clear!”
I buy time. I don’t know if I can deal with his energy. “What are your five favorite books?”
He smiles like I just told him that Santa Claus is real and I read your response to Peach:
Oh, it was Macy’s, not Target, so that’s more respectable . . . I hope. And you’re right, I know I shouldn’t work at the bookstore. I am sooo bad about boundaries. Why are you always so smart?!
Ethan is the middle of his analysis of The Lord of the Rings when I interrupt him.
“I’m sorry, Ethan. Just give me another minute here.”
“You don’t have to be sorry!” He sings, “You’re the boss!”
Everything is an exclamation point with this guy, which is why it’s puzzling that his favorite book of all is American Psycho. “I love a good scare! Don’t you, Joe?”
I prefer literary fiction and he wags his tail and I refresh your inbox and open Peach’s response:
I just care about you, Beckalicious. Remember: boundaries! Also, I feel like I haven’t seen you in foreverrrrr.
I put your phone away and quietly thank your mother for footing the bill. Ethan is still talking about the gerbil in American Psycho.
He gushes and giggles and who the fuck is this guy? “I just love books,” he chirps. “I could talk about books until the cows come home! That’s the hardest thing about losing the job and the girlfriend. I miss talking. I love talking!”
Ethan is the loneliest, most depressing man I’ve ever met in my life and at the same time, he’s saving me. And he’s perfect, just what I need. You will not be into this guy and next to him, I’m the man. I smile. “So, Ethan. Can you work weekends?”
“Of course!” he chirps, not entirely unlike a gerbil. “I can work anytime!”
When we stand I realize that he’s almost a foot shorter than I am. He has dandruff and he gushes with gratitude as I walk him to the door. “You know, Joe, I always had this feeling that I’d wind up with a fun job like this! To be honest, majoring in finance was my dad’s idea. Not mine!”
“Well, that’s good, Ethan, this is good,” I say and he is the one with boundary issues. “You go have a beer and celebrate.”
“I don’t really drink but maybe I’ll put a little rum in my Diet Dr Pepper!” he exclaims and when I watch him walk down the street, I feel proud like a teacher. I have done a good thing today.
You write to Peach and wish her a happy holiday in the sun. You tell her you’re probably going to stay in the city because it costs so much to get to Nantucket and she responds:
Sweetness, if you need a loan, you know I am here. . . .
You write back NO adamantly and Peach is leaving to meet her family in St. Barts and rub organic sun block all over her grotesque body and think about you. Maybe she’ll find a native girl, fall in love, and let you be. I e-mail you that you start tomorrow and you respond right away, the right way:
Yes, Boss.
Later that night, you call me to clarify your start date. When I tell you about Ethan, you are confused at first.
“I thought I got the job,” you say.
“Well, it’s the busiest time of the year, Beck.”
“Does this mean I won’t get as many hours?”
“This means we might have a night off together once in a while.”
You get it and you lower your voice. “Are you sexually harassing me already?”
I don’t laugh. “Yes, miss. I am.”
I’m a genius, clearly, and Peach can fuck off because we keep talking, like boyfriend and girlfriend. I tell you more about Ethan and you laugh.
“He’s like the anti-Blythe,” you say. “She crosses out exclamation points in everyone’s stories. Literally.”
“Damn,” I say. “I wonder what would happen if they were in the same room together.”
“Omigod,” you say and I can tell that you just sat up. “We have to do that.”
“Beck.”
“We have to set them up.”
“This kid is so innocent,” I say. “I don’t think I can unleash Blythe on him.”
“Honestly, Joe,” you say. “Ethan might be just what Blythe needs. And vice versa. I mean, opposites attract, you know?”
“Are we opposites?”
“Well, we’ll see,” you say and then we move on to talking about Indian food and music and it’s one of those conversations that just flows, the kind you can only have after a dressing room.
When we finally hang up, I send you Ethan’s contact information for Blythe. I write:
Merry Christmas!
You write back:
It is indeed.
27
I love having you at the shop. Working with you has made me fall back in love with Mooney’s place. We are an adorable couple and a good match and you love it when anyone says so. There are no more dates. There is just us. You get here before your shifts start and kiss me hello. Dull, pedestrian couples get a dog to practice raising a kid, but we have a shop full of books together. We share the load and laugh at the customers and playfully argue about what kind of music to play and we are one of those 1950s couples, very sexist, because I am in charge and you like it that way. You toy with me, bending the rules on a daily basis and you live to push my buttons. We laugh easily. I bring my Holden hat to work and put it on when you’re not looking and you burst out laughing when you see me.
“Omigod, Joe, you have to let me take that away.”
I playfully fight you off. “You can’t take my Holden Caulfield cap!”
You laugh. “No, what I can’t do is let you go out into the world wearing that thing. Clearly I was not thinking straight when I picked it out.”
I like the reference to our time in Young Sluts and I let you grab my hat. I never even took the tag off and you are pleased to find it there. “Now I can get you something even better.”
And I can’t believe how cheesy I feel, how upbeat, but it feels like the world is on my side; it’s downright happy in Mooney’s place! Ethan and Blythe are actually going on dates, which is amazing, and I go to bed wondering what you’re gonna wear to work the next day, wondering when our chemistry will erupt into a marathon fuck session in your bed that I built. We are waiting to have sex because you say this is special. And it is.
Every day is Christmas and today you arrive in a slutty gray slouchy sweater that hangs off your shoulder and transforms your collarbone into a boner-inducing porno shot. You’re chomping on baby carrots. I tell you to go home and change.
You talk with your mouth full. “You never said there’s a dress code.”
“It’s implied.”
“By what?” you sass. “Ethan’s baggy sweatshirts?”
“Calm down.”
“I am calm, Joe. I’m just asking you to tell me about this dress code.”
“Think of it like school. You wouldn’t go to class in this.”
You toss the carrots on the counter. You cross your arms. “I came from class.”
“Just cover it up,” I say and I want to tell you this is why the guys in your class feel permitted to try and fuck you.
“Cover what up?” you say and now I want to bend you over and teach you a lesson. Your daddy issues are intense, Beck.
“Cover your collarbone.”
“Well why don’t I put on your fleece?”
I let you try on my black fleece and it drowns you and I’d like to pick you up by the collarbone and bring you to the F–K section where you went your first time here when you didn’t even know what you were looking for (me), and I can do that because I’m the boss and you want me to do that and I want to do that but I won’t. I like how much you want it now and it’s going to stay that way and I shake my head at you and motion for you to get out of the fleece and you piss and moan and your slutty sweater goes up along with the fleece when you pull it over your head and some pervert in reference books is looking and I reach over and yank at your sweater and pull it down.