can u just tell me if he has a bunk bed, or a sex doll?
I’d been as guilty of mocking Ethan as anyone, but suddenly I didn’t feel like doing it anymore. Just spending a few hours with the guy had made me feel lot sorrier for him than I ever thought I could.
What were you doing with him? It was a fair question. He was in love with you, that much was painfully obvious, so either you were too nice to let him down, or you were screwing with his head. Maybe both. You struck me as someone who liked to play games and keep secrets. I liked that about you. I never stopped to wonder why.
Pretty busy, I typed quickly. Talk later.
I turned my phone off so you couldn’t distract me and went back out to get deservedly pummeled.
Chapter Thirteen
February 25
77 days left
BY THE TIME I GOT HOME Saturday, Dad was out doing a hot-yoga singles class, which sounded gross in every possible way, and Nana and Pop-Pop were on a day trip to Connecticut. My morning at the Entskys had started with cocoa and Frank Sinatra, followed by popovers and bacon. Ethan’s parents even set out little place cards at the breakfast table. It made me feel like the time I went to my girlfriend’s cousin’s wedding sophomore year and they made me stand in the family photos. I shouldn’t be here, I remember thinking. Years from now, someone will look at these and go, who the fuck was that guy? Somehow, I think I knew I was never going to be invited back to Staten Island.
That was the one thing I managed to be psychic about. Out of everything.
On the ferry ride back, I watched Manhattan bob closer and closer, and as my face got numb my mood started to slip below freezing, too. You hadn’t texted me again, and I didn’t feel like talking to you. I didn’t know what to say. All I knew was I still wanted you, and that it felt like shit.
I was in boxers and tube socks, watching TV on demand and eating a homemade lunch consisting of a hotdog wrapped in a corn tortilla, when the buzzer sounded. I ignored it the first time—if it was a package it could be left downstairs, and anything else I didn’t want to deal with—but when it rang again a few minutes later, I begrudgingly answered.
“Hello?” I asked, with my mouth full.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Roth,” Bobby, the weekend doorman, said cheerfully. “Dave’s friend Libby is here.”
What the fuck? I almost said out loud.
“Uh . . .” I had already picked up, but Bobby thought I was Dad. I could tell him I wasn’t home. I was kind of annoyed that you’d think it was cute to show up unannounced again, or that you’d just assume I had nothing else to do. But then again, I had the house to myself. And even though I wasn’t sure I felt good about what we were doing, some extremely exciting scenarios I’d been imagining would become technically possible if I just said yes. I knew in my head that given the circumstances, it would be very, very wrong to let anything happen, but my head wasn’t in charge of my mouth when I said “OK” into the intercom.
“Very good,” Bobby said.
I hung up and sprinted to my room to get dressed.
? ? ?
When I opened the door, you were already halfway out of your coat, wiping your boots on the mat.
“Is anyone home?” you asked, peering over my shoulder.
“Nope, just me.”
“Damn, ’cause I came for the bagels.” You smiled up at me; we were close enough to kiss.
“Why’d you really come?” It came out more blunt than I’d meant it to, and you drew back a little. I noticed your eyes were bloodshot, even though the rest of your face looked normal, extra-pretty even. It gave me a weird feeling of unease, like seeing broken windows in an otherwise perfect house.
“To hang out,” you said, cocking your head playfully. “Can I come in?”
I shrugged and stepped aside. You draped your coat over a chair and walked slowly to the center of the living room, which was a mess of dirty plates and unopened mail. Dad hadn’t even folded up his bed, so the couch cushions lay scattered on the floor. I realized then that whatever fantasies I’d had about you never took place amid the paisley-printed rubble of my dad’s midlife crisis. The shame of you seeing it made me angry. What were you doing at my house? What were you doing with me?
“Want help cleaning up?” you asked.
“Nope.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
You stared at me for a long pause, like you were trying to read me or waiting for me to talk, but I didn’t want to give in either way. It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds that we stood there in silence, but it felt like minutes ticked by, a weird, sexually charged high noon with balled-up socks instead of tumbleweeds.
“What’s wrong?” you finally asked, narrowing your eyes. “Are you mad at me or something?”
“No,” I said, my jaw getting tense.
“Okaaaaaaay,” you said, pursing your lips. “So what’s up?”
I shrugged. “It’s kind of weird that you just dropped by again. You could have given me a heads-up.”
“I’m sorry,” you said, shifting uncomfortably. “I just . . . I was in the neighborhood, so . . .”