But then, because I’m an idiot, I found myself inviting him inside.
Okay. Let me just stop right here and say that I know what you’re thinking. And I get it, really. Like, why would I go and put myself in such a dangerous position? Wasn’t I just guaranteeing that Trip and I would wind up rolling around in my sheets the second we got in the door? So, yeah, I hear you, I really do. But the simple fact of the matter is this:
Trip Fucking Wiley asked to see my apartment.
I had convinced myself by that point that I was older now, stronger, better able to resist him. I was sure I could handle myself accordingly. Hell, hadn’t we just proved that outside the diner? This was a once-in-a-lifetime reunion with not only the greatest boyfriend I’d ever had (aside from Devin, of course), but the last night I’d get to spend with a very dear old friend. Plus, I was never in the habit of telling that boy no.
Especially since he was very, very good at getting me to tell him yes.
So, I found myself leading Trip up the echo-chamber stairwell, all three flights of clangy steel and solid concrete that led to my apartment. I managed to get my shaking hands around my keys and unlocked the door, leading him inside with a sweeping motion of my arm. “Welcome to the penthouse.”
He chuckled, then strolled into my humble abode, taking in the space with a peremptory glance around my living room. A vision of my dream passed before my eyes, picturing the scene that had played out right there on that very futon. I banished the image from my mind as he wandered into my kitchen and started laughing.
The rest of my apartment was as tastefully decorated as I could manage, but my kitchen was like a pop culture museum. It was the one room I allowed my inner child to indulge. Some of the stuff I had hoarded away years before and had simply dug out of my father’s attic when I got my own place. But I was quite the shopper in those days, too; whether it was a garage sale in Jersey or popping in to check out one of the many quirky shops in NYC, I’d managed to buy back a few additional pieces from my childhood. The entire space above my cabinets was crammed with toys and games and stuff, and some of it had managed to trickle down into the rest of the room.
Trip tapped at the Makit & Bakit “stained glass” rainbow suction-cupped to my window, ran his hand over the Wonder Woman cookie jar on my stove. He rifled through the basket of action figures on top of my microwave, giving Stretch Armstrong a good pull before arranging He-Man and Strawberry Shortcake into a compromising position on the counter, fairly pleased with himself. He spotted the Star Wars calendar on the wall and jabbed a finger at the square marked “Trip TRU 11:00”.
“And so it begins,” he smiled out, looking right at me with a cocked brow.
I was leaning in the doorway, smiling back, and all I could think was: It began long before that, pal.
He turned, smirking, and I felt the alarm bells going off. He started coming right for me, and I was caught unaware as I watched him step purposefully in my direction. I froze in that split second… before realizing that he was merely brushing by me on his way into my bedroom.
I shook my head, trying to jog my brain back into thinking platonic thoughts, and followed Trip into my room. I wasn’t surprised to find him doing a perimeter check.
Always such an observer, this man. Always checking out his surroundings, grasping at the details, seeing everything. His ability to notice every aspect of his environment was undoubtedly the reason why he was such an amazing actor. Trip watched. He absorbed. Then he ran all those little pieces of data through the meat grinder of his brain, processing and pulling out the premium bits, rolling them into the creation of something new before presenting it, ever so uniquely, to the world.
Standing before my framed Monet print, he completely astonished me by remarking, “Hey. Water Lilies. This was your old bedspread.”
He was right. It was. I always loved that painting, and back in high school, it was the design on the comforter in my old room. Trip had only seen it a few times, and normally right as we were ripping it off the mattress in order to make out. “You remember my bedspread?”
He stuck his hands into his pockets, turned his head to look over his shoulder, and aimed a ravenous grin at me. “I remember lots of things.”
I felt my heart skip a beat as I tried to keep my knees from buckling. Yep. I pretty much died.
But Trip didn’t seem to notice as he took note of the towers of books in the corner, running his fingertips over the spines. He moved to look out my window, which offered nothing more than a view of my fire escape and the roof of the restaurant around the corner. He went to open the pane, but it had been caked shut with about twenty coats of paint from over the years and was giving the big strong galoot some trouble. I went over to help him.