Loverboy

by Bowen, Sarina

  “Yeah,” I agree quickly. “I just wish she’d play them on someone else.”

  “She will,” Ginny says forcefully. “A woman like that needs multiple victims to fuel her ego.”

  “Let’s hope she’s a poor multitasker.” I yawn. “I have to call Gunnar’s reference before I can go to bed.”

  “Night,” my sister says, swinging off the sofa and standing up. “I’m going to bed, too. Tomorrow I’m playing the role of your hot barista.”

  “So hot,” I say, fanning myself.

  She rolls her eyes and leaves the room, heading for the staircase down to the fourth floor, which Ginny and Aaron share. My bedroom is up here on the fifth floor, where the living room, kitchen and my bathroom are, too.

  Strange family. Strange apartment. But it works for us.

  With wine coursing through my veins, I locate my phone and dial the 650 area code number that Gunnar left on his application.

  It rings twice, then I hear, “This is Joe speaking.”

  Well, that was easy. “Hi there. Um, I was given your number by someone I interviewed for a job today. He listed your name as a reference.”

  “All right, miss. Which hooligan was it?”

  I think I like Joe. “His name is Gunnar Scott.”

  “Ah, Gunnar. Took himself off to New York, did he? I'm glad to hear it. He has a sick father who needs looking after.”

  “Right. Okay.” Guilt stabs me right in the breastbone. When I first met Gunnar, he would never have begged for work the way he did today. I need to work, he’d said. “The job is for a barista position. Can you verify that he worked at your cafe?”

  “Sure did. Good guy. Hard working. Never late. We're not a fancy cafe, mind you. But Gunnar is smart. He can figure out anything if you give him a chance.”

  Oh man. It’s like he’s seeing right into my tortured little soul. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for your time.”

  “Have a nice evening, miss.”

  “You too.”

  5

  Posy

  I lie in bed a half hour later, trying not to think about my ex-husband and his new girlfriend. If she’s pregnant, though, that’s going to hurt.

  A lot.

  I married Spalding when I was twenty-two, after two years of dating. He was a couple of years ahead of me at Columbia. He worked in advertising on Madison Avenue. Still does.

  We were pretty happy for several years. At least I thought we were. Although our social life was a little dull, since there were a lot of business dinners with advertisers. And Spalding liked vacationing at golf resorts. We lived a nice life.

  Then, when we’d been married several years, I was starting to think about leaving my soul-sucking corporate job to have children. Eighteen months ago, I was on the brink of telling Spalding my plans. But then he had a health scare on the ninth hole at Shinnecock, where he’d gone to try to close a deal with a major airline.

  He felt chest pains, and he had trouble breathing. They summoned an ambulance and whisked him away to the cardiac care center at a Long Island hospital. I was summoned from my desk at work, rushing to his side.

  After two days of tests, it was determined that Spalding had not had a heart attack.

  “Panic can masquerade as a coronary event,” the specialist told me. “It’s very common, and surprisingly scary for the patient. But he was lucky. All he needs is some lifestyle changes to feel better. Therapy wouldn’t hurt. Or at least some meditation and stress relief.”

  Spalding got the message. No—he got religion. He took a leave of absence from work to “get healthy.” He joined a gym. He took a retreat to Mexico, where he studied yoga and the Spanish language.

  “I am uno con el universe,” he wrote to me during his three weeks away, while I toiled at my desk.

  It became a very bad time to quit my job, since Spalding had effectively quit his. My plans would have to wait. Meanwhile, Spalding began talking to a life coach. “Your advertising firm sent me,” she said the day she knocked on our apartment door. “I can help Spalding recover his health, his wellness, and his positivity.”

  Her name was Saroya.

  I hated her on sight. But she and Spalding became confidantes. He began spouting wellness aphorisms in every conversation. “What you are is where you have been. What you’ll be is what you do now.” And so on.

  The advertising firm paid for weekly sessions with Saroya. But the cost would prove to be greater than I could tally. Spalding’s infatuation was like watching a slow train wreck. He began bringing her up in every conversation. He’d ask her opinion on every small decision he made.

  One time he called her from our brunch table at a cafe to ask how he should order his eggs.

  The only thing he never consulted her about was the thing I most wanted him to plan—his return to work. At that point I was carrying our finances. And Ginny was struggling, so I was funding her, too. I took on extra projects at work, trying to ensure a hefty year-end bonus.

  Meanwhile, Spalding spent his days meditating and browsing the shops. He bought richly illustrated coffee table books and handmade Italian sandals, claiming that his new finds helped him “walk the path of happiness.”

  Until—finally—he called me at work one day. “I’ve come to a big decision, and I’d like to share it with you. I made a reservation at Per Se.”

  “Wow, okay,” I said. “Can’t wait.”

  I put on a dress and I met him at Thomas Keller’s famously expensive restaurant overlooking Central Park. When I got there, he had a bottle of champagne waiting at the table. I settled in for a romantic meal with my dashing husband. Spalding has the sort of genteel face and bearing that makes people turn for a better look. Gleaming dark hair. Crisp shirts. Shiny shoes.

  I used to be in awe of Spalding. I used to feel a little stunned that he’d chosen me. And for the first hour that night at Per Se, I still felt lucky. Then, during the fish course, I asked Spalding what he wanted to talk about. I was ninety percent sure he wanted to tell me he was ready to go back to work, or to make a career change. Something I could support. And then I would tell him how much I wanted to scale back and try to have a child.

  “Posy, I think we should open our marriage.”

  “Open it,” I’d said with a smile, because I was still thinking about babies. “What do you mean?”

  “I think we should see other people. Sexually,” he said, smiling back at me.

  A small piece of skate became briefly lodged in my throat as I struggled to swallow. I ended up coughing into my napkin.

  Spalding made a prissy face that I saw whenever I did something that wasn’t up to his standards. “What?” I gasped. “You mean you want to have sex with—” I didn’t finish the sentence, just in case I’d misunderstood.

  “With other women,” he finished. “And you could do the same, if you chose to. We’re missing that spark we used to have. This will be a good way to get it back.”

  “No it won’t,” I’d said immediately.

  He’d frowned then, as if it had never occurred to him that I wouldn’t go along with this. “Posy, you’ve never tried very hard in bed. You’re basically a starfish. I never held it against you, though, because you’re good at other things. But at this point in my life, I need to walk the path of joy. This way you’ll learn to become adventurous.”

  “Adventurous? I’m just tired. I work like a dog.” It was just sinking in that my husband wasn’t going to let this go. This was not a bad dream that I could wake up from. “Are you having an affair?” I’d asked him quietly.

  “No!” he said quickly, looking insulted. “That’s a nasty question, Posy. I’m trying to save our marriage.”

  Saroya, I thought suddenly. This was her idea. But I wasn’t going to say her name aloud. He’d deny it, and I’d sound petty. “No, Spalding. That’s not my idea of saving a marriage. And what’s your end game? And how will you explain it to our future children?” Daddy can’t tuck you in tonight. He’s at his girl
friend’s house.

  Yeah? No.

  “I’m sorry you feel this way,” he’d said primly, adjusting his napkin in his lap. “The root of suffering is attachment, Posy. This is what I need. So you’ll have to think it over.”

  The root of my suffering is you, said a little voice in my head. It was the first time in my marriage when I’d allowed myself to think that.

  Taking a deep breath, I’d glanced around the beautiful room, with its twinkling view of nighttime Manhattan beyond the grand windows. “Okay.” This was actually happening. I was going to end my marriage in one of New York’s most elegant restaurants.

  Spalding misunderstood my utterance, though, and his eyes had lit up with victory. “Good girl. Good decision. This might even teach you a few things about how to please a man. You’re smart. You might catch on.”

  My head had snapped back as if I’d been punched. “Catch on?” I’d pushed my chair back suddenly. I had to put some distance between us. There was so much anger rising inside of me that the table couldn’t contain it all.

  Spalding had clicked his tongue. “I didn’t mean right this moment, sweet. Have some more champagne.” He’d reached for the bottle in its wine bucket beside the table.

  But I’d beat him to it. “Sure. Let’s have more.” As I hoisted it out of the icy water, I admired the label. Veuve Cliquot was seventy dollars in the liquor store. Probably twice that in the restaurant. And I was paying for it, because I was the only one earning a paycheck.

  I couldn’t believe Spalding brought me here to wine and dine me on my own dime to ask me if he could sleep with other women. I didn’t even recognize him anymore.

  Well then. He wouldn’t recognize me, either. I’d stood up and leaned over him as he’d raised his champagne flute toward me. But I’d tipped the bottle too far above to hit the glass, thrilling myself as the first of the foamy, golden liquid began to pour from the bottleneck onto his shiny, shiny hair.

  Spalding’s shriek had made every head in the restaurant swivel towards us. “This is my favorite tie!” he’d sputtered as the last drops rained down on him.

  “But attachment is the root of all suffering,” I’d said through clenched teeth. “I’m walking the path to joy right out of here.”

  A waiter had approached with his hands up and open. Like he’d expected me to attack. I’d straightened my spine and handed him the bottle. “Here. This is empty. But don’t bring him another bottle. I’m divorcing his cowardly ass and he won’t have the money for vintage champagne after tonight.”

  Then, in the utter silence of the stunned room, I’d lifted my briefcase to my shoulder and left without a backward glance. I’d taken the Subway to Ginny’s apartment, where I’d spent the night crying on her sofa.

  The following morning I’d gone back to my own apartment at six a.m. Spalding was sitting at the kitchen table, eating peanut butter toast and coffee.

  “I don’t want an open marriage,” I’d told him. “I won’t do it. If you make me choose, I’ll choose divorce.”

  “Oh dear. Siddhartha said: If you find no one to support you on the spiritual path, walk alone.”

  Now it’s only me who walks alone, though. These days he’s walking the path of happiness with Saroya. I called that one. Even if they didn’t start up until I’d moved out, it was still a betrayal.

  Almost a year later, I’m still angry about it.

  And because our divorce was technically my decision, I was forced to buy out Spalding’s marital portion of the buildings my grandparents left me. His divorce lawyer was an animal. Spalding had once dipped into inherited money to pay for my MBA, so the judge divided the property I’d eventually inherited. Never mind that I worked like a dog to see him through his so-called medical crisis. And never mind that we were only divorcing so he could boink his life coach.

  Even if I’m poorer now, at least I’m free of him. Or I would be, if she ever stopped showing up.

  I started a pie shop instead of a family. I’m happy with my choice. But if Spalding and Saroya are starting a family, I’m going to need to take up kickboxing, or find some other outlet for my rage. They will raise their bundle of joy next door, in the building he gained by divorcing me.

  Ouch. Just ouch. I wonder if Buddha said anything useful about revenge.

  I flop around in my bed, trying to get comfortable. Shoving Spalding and his new woman out of my mind isn’t easy. And I only manage it when my busy brain flips over to thinking about Gunnar Scott instead.

  There’s another man who’s too attractive for his own good. Although he’s handsome in a scruffy way that’s different from Spalding’s genteel good looks.

  My attraction to Gunnar began the very first night we ever worked together. I was—I can admit this now—a terrible bartender at first. I was only nineteen years old, and not a drinker. I had to mix each cocktail with the care of a chemist in the laboratory. One ounce of this, a half ounce of that.

  Meanwhile, Gunnar would be just down the bar, pouring liquors I couldn’t even pronounce with a flick of his strong wrist.

  He made four times as many drinks as I did the first night. I was sweaty and demoralized by two a.m. But Gunnar was sipping a beer and facing the bills in the cash pouch with the finesse of a Las Vegas dealer. “Hey new girl,” he’d said between tasks. “You need some help getting up to speed?”

  “I’ll get there,” I’d said defensively.

  “Never said you wouldn’t.” I watched his T-shirt flex over his strong chest. “If you’re down, you can come over to my place and I’ll give you some …” His eyes did a slow tour of my breasts. “… special tutoring.”

  With a gulp, I’d turned away. “If tutoring is code for sex, then no thank you.”

  Gunnar had only laughed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He’d reached up to grab a thin book off the shelf over the register. “Better take this then, and study it.”

  I’d taken his copy of Mixology and thanked him curtly. By studying that book, I became a more confident bartender. That’s when my father hatched his scheme to dangle a promotion in front of both of us at the same time. So Gunnar and I became fierce competitors.

  It was so typical of me to fall for my father’s scheme. I wanted Daddy’s approval so badly that I’d rather go to war with the hot guy in the tight T-shirt than go home to bed with him.

  What a waste. I might have had a night of fun with someone who could have taught me to mix a gin fizz and a bloody Mary while naked.

  But nope. My misplaced sense of duty and pride forbade me to have fun, or even ask for help.

  I close my eyes and picture Gunnar behind my eyelids. He’s aged well, damn him. Same scruffy blond hair and hot body. Same loverboy smile. What are the odds that he’ll invite me over again? Pretty bad, I’m guessing. If he really needs the barista job, he won’t proposition his boss.

  Ah well. If he figures out how to make coffee before Monday, I can still watch his muscles flex while he does it.

  It will have to be enough.

  6

  Gunnar

  The next morning I wake up in my SoHo loft. Even before I open my eyes, I hear the sounds of the city. A taxi’s beep, and the cooing of a mourning dove on a nearby window ledge. These are the sounds of my childhood, which I spent in a much cheaper neighborhood in Queens.

  I don’t miss New York. Now that my mother has passed, there’s nothing here for me.

  Nonetheless, I own a kickass apartment. A few years ago, I bought this place on Sullivan Street as an investment. It’s everything I coveted when I was old enough to realize that the patrons of Paxton’s Bar and Bistro didn’t live in shitty little apartments like I had as a child. My bachelor pad has big windows that let in the sunlight; high ceilings that make each room feel enormous. There’s a killer kitchen with a row of leather-topped bar stools.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get up to visit the fanciest bathroom I’ll ever own. It’s a goddamn temple of marble tile and stonework. There
’s a Japanese soaking tub and heated towel bars. Maybe the heated toilet seat is a little over the top. But hey—this is my kingdom. I get to choose the throne.

  After I’ve had a long drink of New York’s finest tap water and a good stretch, I throw some clothes into a backpack. Then I drink a liter of water, don some sweats and leave the building, buying a bagel at a food cart on the corner.

  It’s a great bagel, too. I guess that’s one thing New York does right.

  My sweet apartment doesn’t have a gym, but The Company does. It’s a twenty-minute jog to our corporate headquarters on 18th Street.

  The agent behind the desk recognizes me right away. “Gunnar, welcome back to New York!” Her dark eyes light up, and her cheeks flush.

  “Thanks, Trina. Great to see you again.” I hustle over to the elevator banks and take one downstairs to the gym.

  It’s a spacious room, but only young Duff is there, doing reps on the squat rack. “Morning,” he says, dropping the barbell onto the supports. “How’s your cushy assignment going?”

  “It blows, but thanks for asking,” I mutter, adding plates to the leg press. I have to keep my body ready for action even if Max wants me standing around in a pie shop.

  “Hey, I’m spending the week keeping screaming fourteen-year-old girls away from a boy band,” Duff says. “Trade you.”

  I actually consider it. A horde of fourteen-year-old girls sounds easier to withstand than the critical eye of Posy Paxton. “Do you know how to make coffee drinks?”

  “Not really. And more to the point, I’m not a surveillance guy.”

  “So don’t tease me,” I grumble, catching one foot in my palm, and stretching out my quads. “I’m fragile right now.”

  “You’re gonna bring us a pie, right? I’m partial to cherry and key lime.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I grunt between reps. “I’ll be fired after my first shift.”

  “Nah,” Duff says. “You hear that?”

  “Hear what?” After my tenth rep, I rest the weights and listen. I hear the groan of the freight elevator. “So?”