You’re not talking smack about me to Lynn and Chana. You’re not cheating on me; you’d never be able to pull that off with my access to your e-mail. I know. I know that you don’t have a lot of work at school and setting Ethan up with Blythe really was a bad idea because he comes into work telling me about the fun they had last night at the golfing range—I shit you not—and I can’t even get a response from you when I write to discuss the odd coupling of Ethan and Blythe.
It hurts, Beck. I don’t know what to do with your absence. You’re not mad at me. I know you well enough to know when your tail starts pounding the floor, and you’re not happy at me, either. I ask you if you want to get into our robes and you kiss me and tell me we’re beyond robes. You wrap yourself in me and hold on to me but what does that mean exactly?
Beyond robes.
We still have an everythingship because you still do things. I wake up with my dick in your mouth at least once a week. You still let me know when I’m on your mind for no reason:
Solipsistic (n) thinking of you and your hot bod
And you rave about me when you write to your mother:
This is different, Mom. He’s on my level. And yet he shouldn’t be technically because our lives are so different. But when it works . . . it works. You know?
Your mother can’t wait to meet me and I close my eyes and see us in Nantucket, in love. I even ask you about it one night when you’re laid up with cramps.
“So you think this summer we’ll hang out in Nantucket?”
You giggle and I burn. It wasn’t supposed to be funny and you feel bad. “Joe, baby, no, no. I wasn’t laughing at that. Of course we can go to Nantucket. It’s just that you don’t say in Nantucket. You say on Nantucket.”
I can’t think of a witty comeback and I used to be so good with you but maybe Ethan was right and you ask me to run up to the store and get you Advil and I do. The curtains are open and I see you open up your computer and start replying to an e-mail. I know that I shouldn’t look at your e-mail as much now that we’re together but it’s a cold night and a long walk so I refresh your outbox.
Nothing.
I look in drafts.
Nothing.
And that’s not possible because I saw you writing an e-mail with my own eyes. I buy the Advil and start home and decide to confront you but when I let myself in—you gave me a key a couple weeks ago—you aren’t in the apartment. I call your name but you’re gone and I panic. But then I hear the water turn on and I walk into the bathroom and you’re wet hot, mine.
“Well, get in here already,” you say. And I do. You fuck me like an animal and we get into our robes and I don’t think about the e-mail and maybe I was wrong, maybe you deleted it. We are close that night and the next day I wake up and you’re already gone and I text you.
Me: That was fantastic. I woke up thinking about you in the shower.
You: Good good.
Me: Let me know when to come over. I have a feeling you’re gonna need another one.
And then it happens, the most dreaded response in the world, more terse than any word, more withholding than a no, and strictly verboten for someone as in love with language and me as you claim to be.
You: K
I get the dreaded K and I ask Ethan to fill in for me for the rest of the day but he can’t. The day doesn’t go by and I’m losing it and I’m looking at pictures of you and losing my patience with customers and I close early and call you but I get voice mail and I leave you a message asking when you can come over. I’m home when you finally respond and as it turns out, there is something worse than the dreaded K.
You: Long story, honey but I gotta bail. Call you tomorrow xoxo
I cry and watch Pitch Perfect and sing along with the Barden Bellas. I don’t want to be a person who knows the name of a fictional a cappella group in a chick flick but that’s what love has done to me. When it’s over, I jerk off in the shower like a lot of unhappily married men in this world. But I cry harder because I’m not even married to you. Yet.
44
THERE are only so many times you can tell a person that you’re happy for them. I have been happy for Ethan a lot lately and it’s starting to get a little old. Every day he has good news of some kind and today is no different.
“You’re not gonna believe this, Joe.”
“Try me.”
“Blythe wants to move in together!”
He beams and I smile. “That’s great, E.”
He’s gonna miss Murray Hill. He’s the only person on earth who would feel an attachment to Murray Fucking Hill and I say my line: “I’m happy for you, kid.” And I mean it.
But I think your competitive streak is starting to rub off on me, Beck, because suddenly, I feel like life is a race I’m losing to Ethan and Blythe. I want life to be like Chutes and Ladders. I want us to climb a ladder as they slip into a chute. I’m starting to be kind of a dick and I throw a dart at his balloon. “Are you sure you want to move all the way to Carroll Gardens?”
“Blythe doesn’t like Murray Hill.” He shrugs. “It’s a no-brainer.”
“I hear you,” I say and I can’t help but try and one-up. “I don’t remember the last time I spent the night in my place. It’s all West Village, all the time.”
It’s a dangerous thing to put out in the universe, because naturally, you e-mail me a few minutes later: Can we do your place instead of mine tonight? I’ve had a crazy day and my apartment is a disaster.
I tell Ethan I have to go outside. I call you up. You don’t answer. You never answer anymore. I pace. I panic. There are pieces of you that I collected along the way, souvenirs from my journey. I call you again. Voice mail. I lean against the glass front and it hits me: I’m scared for us, Beck. When we move in together, which we will, I am gonna have to choose between you and the pieces of you currently stored in a box, in the hole in the wall I made because of you. The walls in the building are terrible (surprise, surprise) and the plaster is cracking and the hole is bigger and I keep meaning to tell the super but I don’t want to tell the super because I want your things in my hole. I’m being a lunatic. You’d have to climb into the wall to get at the box and no girl in the world would do that. Breathe, Joe.
My phone buzzes. I answer. “Hi.”
“Joe, listen, I really can’t talk because I’m so late.”
“Where are you?”
“Here,” you say and I turn and there you are and you smile. I like it when you surprise me at the shop. There’s nothing like throwing my arms around you when I least expect it. I reward you with a kiss. You kiss me back, no tongue. You’re in school mode.
“I can’t stay.”
“You sure? I got Ethan in there. We can grab coffee.”
You put your hand out, palm open. “Can I grab your keys?”
This is an everythingship. I shouldn’t hesitate but I do.
“Joe, think about it. I’m gonna get home before you do.”
You called my place home and I give you my keys. You kiss me. Again, no tongue.
“Don’t you have class soon?”
“Yes,” you say and you hug me and it’s good-bye. “See you later!”
You’re gone, along with my keys and Ethan is chuckling when I get back into the shop. “So should we flip a coin?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Blythe just called and told me about how the girls have the day off from school because of the bomb threat.”
“Yeah,” I say but this is news to me.
“So should we draw straws?”
“No need,” I say. “Beck’s got a friend in town. Get outta here, have fun.”
He’s gone and I text you:
Hey. You got a second?