I walked you home, despite your protestations that it was close and still light outside. I decided that if you blew me off three times I would stop trying—obviously in most situations no means no and there’s no gray area, but I was trying to be gentlemanly, and I was worried about you after my discovery at the restaurant, and besides, you didn’t know that the Staten Island ferry left every thirty minutes, so you believed me when I claimed I was stuck until eight—but on the third ask you just kind of shrugged and took out your phone, so I fell into step with you on 9th Avenue, trying to keep up, so that people would think we were at least friends, if not together.
We’d used to be friends without having to try so hard. Freshman year, during Godspell rehearsals, you’d seemed to think I was cute, treating me in a slightly condescending but affectionate way, like I was your adorable sidekick, or some talking Pixar animal (apparently Joy never really played that role the way you wanted). You would call me Jesus, but pronounced the Spanish way, and ruffle my hair, making all the pretty, strong-chinned drama boys wish they were Ginger Rogers, just to get that kind of attention. But your love, such as it was, was conditional on remaining nonthreatening. Once I started to get ambitious, when I realized I could stop pretending to be able to act and write my way into a new major instead, that was when we started clashing. The tension only made me want you more, although the one time I made the mistake of talking to my mom about it, she told me there was no such thing as a “love-hate” relationship.
“If there’s any hate, then it’s not really love, is it?” she’d said, like she knew what she was talking about. Apparently she never watched TV.
After five blocks of monk-like silence, we got to your building, a 60s monolith of butter-colored brick and a big plate glass entryway. It was a balmy night, so the door was propped open, and the elderly doorman smiled at us from his chair just inside.
“Miss Liv!” he called out. “No puedo seguir el ritmo de todos sus novios.” He chuckled and waved at me. It was the first good response I’d gotten since the rice grain. If your doorman remembered who I was, then you must have at least mentioned me. Then I wasn’t completely delusional.
“Ignore him,” you mumbled, looking tense.
“So, see you tomorrow, I guess—”
“I had a nice time,” you said brusquely.
“—unless you want me to . . .” I shifted from foot to foot, tried on a smile. “I could come up and . . .”
And what, moron? Make awkward small talk with her parents? Stage an intervention? Or do you think if you manage to get her alone and stand in the right light, she’ll suddenly realize her animal desire and drag you into bed?
“Actually, I’m pretty tired.” In the harsh lobby lights, your pupils were comically dilated. I wondered what you were on, and how I’d never noticed it before.
“Right,” I said.
“But thank you for dinner.” You leaned forward and braced yourself on my shoulders, delivering a dry peck on my cheek. It felt like some cigar-smoking mogul stamping a letter in a black and white movie while cackling maniacally. VOID. REJECTED.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets and watched you walk to the elevator, jamming the button impatiently, digging in your bag for something you’d never, in all the years I’d known you, seemed to find. Only maybe you had found it, and maybe I finally knew what it was.
Once the doors had closed and you were gone, I stood there for another minute, wondering what I was supposed to do. A good boyfriend, a stand-up guy, would probably tell you he knew, and that he was worried about you, and that you needed to stop. But I was more of a stand-down kind of guy, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t your boyfriend, either.
“Hey, man, everything OK?” the doorman finally asked, noticing my impression of a sad statue.
“Yeah, sorry.” I moved to leave but then stopped short. I had to say something. Even if it wasn’t directly to you. “Has she . . . um, has she been OK?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah, she’s tough,” he said with a dismissive wave. “She takes care of herself.” He smiled. “And besides, Miss Liv’s got lots of friends. Someone’s been here all week. They barely left.”
“Joy?” I asked hopefully. “Black girl, like my height?” He narrowed his eyes, and I tried to backtrack. “I mean, like African American . . . woman?”
“Nah, I know Miss Joy,” the doorman said. “I don’t know the new one. They never stop to talk to me. He’s—”
He.
My face must have changed, because he stopped short. “You know what, I can’t really keep track,” he laughed. “She’s always making new friends.”
“Right,” I said hollowly.
It could be her dealer! my brain practically screamed, as if that would be good news. If you were using so much that you saw your dealer every day, then you were really in trouble.
“What did he look like?” I asked.
“I—you know, I didn’t get a good look, man,” he said. “So many people coming and going.” But his expression had changed; there was pity in his eyes. And there it was. The boom I’d been waiting for. The remote detonation I hadn’t seen coming.
There was someone else. The radio silence over break, the texting under the table—it all made sense. Listen, I wasn’t stupid; I knew you never loved me. What hurt was that “he,” whoever he was, had weaseled his way into your life—maybe even into your bed—in a matter of days when I had put in so much time already. I was the only one who had always been there for you. I was the only one who really knew you.
Or was I?