“You didn’t mention you were having company,” Dad said. “A heads-up would have been nice.”
“I didn’t know!” I shouted. I vaguely remembered telling you, probably overeagerly, that I was up for rehearsing one-on-one, any time, any place. But I think I’d also promised Ethan I would go to Staten Island, and that was definitely never going to happen, just like you, in my grandparents’ apartment wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Relax, honey, we’re excited to meet your friend,” Nana said. “But Kevin, you really should change.”
“Don’t act excited,” I said. “Don’t act any way. Just—” Don’t exist. Evaporate, please. “—be normal.” I swallowed nervously as I heard the telltale chime of the elevator doors opening. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Dad stepping back into the sweatpants he’d slept in. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but it would have to be good enough.
Nana, displaying a staggering lack of smoothness, opened the door before you’d even had a chance to knock.
“You must be Libby,” she said. I shoved my hands into my pockets and then took them out again, crossing my arms over my chest. No pose felt casual.
“It’s Liv, actually.” You appeared in the doorway, so improbable in the space that you looked like a hologram superimposed over the fading floral wallpaper. You were glowing, your cheeks rosy from the cold. Nana took your coat and you stepped into the apartment. If what you saw surprised you, it didn’t register.
“Hey,” you said.
“Hi.” We locked eyes and I smiled dumbly. “I would’ve come down if I’d . . . um.” I could feel my family staring at us, which made me even more self-conscious.
“No, it’s OK, I’m early,” you said. “I like your place.”
“Thank you,” Pop-Pop said, standing up.
“Sorry, Mr. Roth,” you said, moving past me to shake his hand. “I mean, I like your place. It’s really homey.”
“Call me Phil,” Pop-Pop said. “Also known as ‘the actor’s grandfather.’” I gritted my teeth; this was just as embarrassing as I’d feared. And I was still tripping over your apology that you were early. Early for what? How could I have made a date with you and forgotten about it? We hadn’t even been drinking.
“I’m Barbara,” Nana said. “Davy’s grandmother.”
“Which makes you . . .” you said, turning to my dad with an expectant smile.
“Dave’s dad,” Dad said, extending his hand. “Although I would also accept much-older brother.”
“I’m an only child,” I said quickly, and everyone laughed.
“Are you hungry, Liv?” Nana asked. It was a rhetorical question, since she was already making a plate. Within minutes, you were perched on the couch in your socks, balancing food on your knees and drinking coffee out of a mug printed with the title of a failed pilot I’d shot a few years back. I sat next to you, more awkward in my own (sort of) apartment than I had been at the movies. I felt like a goalie, my whole body on edge, ready to leap up at any second to block a dangerous shot.
“So how do you two know each other?” Dad asked. I’d been so preoccupied with his pants situation that I’d failed to notice his scraggly five-day beard growth or the shirt he was wearing, a souvenir from the Jewish Museum in San Francisco, printed with the words YO, SEMITE under a picture of trees.
“We’re in Showcase together,” you said.
“The play,” I practically screamed.
“See, he doesn’t tell us anything,” Nana said. “Do you two play friends, or . . .” Her eyes twinkled.
“Strangers,” I said, before she could finish. It was like I could only speak in two-syllable barks designed to stop conversation in its tracks.
“We meet on a bridge under cover of darkness,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially, raising an eyebrow. “At the turn of the century.”
“Interesting,” Pop-Pop said. “Do I know this play?”
“Nope, it’s an original,” you said. “This guy, Ethan, wrote it—” You kept talking, but I stopped listening. This guy. You didn’t call your boyfriend this guy. I floated silently to the ceiling.
You held court, with Dad and my grandparents in the palm of your hand. I remember watching them fall for you, all of them leaning in, warming themselves on your glow like you were a fire in the middle of winter. You told them all about growing up in the city—you lived just a few blocks from where Nana and Pop-Pop met at the Village Vanguard, which made them like you, and ID’d Thelonious Monk on the radio, which made them love you. You even handled awkward questions—“Are you Jewish?” Nana asked bluntly at one point, as if she could actually see the chuppah in the distance—with ease.