The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  I check the signature in the lower right corner. B. Farmer. Bernadette Farmer?

  What do you know.

  The less-than-seventy-year-old artist nerd has got talent.

  A bod and talent and some kind of fragrance that I’ve never encountered before and more than one screw loose, so far as I can tell.

  I can’t help but wonder what she’s doing on the other side of the wall right now. Taking off that dress? Scheming to steal my dog? Both, probably.

  Daisy circles my legs and barks her approval of our new digs.

  “Yeah. It’ll do for now.” I pick her up and let her drench my face with saliva. Honestly don’t know what I would have done the past few days without her. “I’m gonna have to find you a dog daycare, huh, girl?”

  As soon as I let my parents know that we’d moved out of our apartment, I got an email from Aunt Dolly insisting that I stay at her place. That’s how it goes in my family—I tell my parents there’s an issue, they say they’re sorry to hear it and ask if there’s anything they can do, I say no, and then we stop talking about it. My mom emails her sister, and then Dolly offers up her opinions and solutions for everything. It’s efficient and effective.

  I figured it would be nice for Daisy to be near two big parks for a change, but I’m not going to be able to come home at lunch to walk her like I could sometimes do when we lived downtown. If we don’t move back in with Vanessa, this could be a good opportunity to find a ground floor unit with some backyard space.

  But it’s too soon to think about that just yet.

  I go back out to the hallway to bring my stuff to the guest room. I could text Vanessa to ask if there was anything else of mine that I missed, but I’m determined to get her to make the first move. After three nights in a hotel with my dog, the least she could do is text to ask where we’ve been staying.

  I can hear Bernadette’s front door shut and realize a few seconds later that I’ve been holding my breath. She doesn’t knock on my door. Fortunately. Don’t know why she would. Other than to baby-talk at my dog again.

  Suddenly, a yappy dog starts barking downstairs, and Daisy joins in on the fun. Must be Mrs. Benson’s poodle. Daisy’s scampering back and forth along the front door, her flat nose to the ground. Poodle must be barking at the door directly downstairs.

  “Hey! Shush.” I raise my finger to her and give her my best alpha voice. “Daisy, quiet.” I pick her up and take her to the guest room and shut the door. She quiets down immediately, and I am one proud dog daddy. The poodle downstairs, though, keeps barking.

  When I’m back in the front hallway to pick up my bags, I hear a faint knock. It’s so faint and hesitant that I can’t quite tell if it’s on my door or Bernadette’s. Three louder knocks confirm that someone’s outside my door, and I have to wipe the grin off my face before opening it.

  “Hi,” says Bernadette Farmer. She’s still wearing that dress, her arms hiding behind her back, one foot crossed behind the other, looking up at me sheepishly. She wrinkles her nose. “Sorry about the poodle.”

  “Should have known you had something to do with that.”

  “I just knocked on Mrs. Benson’s door to see if she could help me with something, but she’s not at home.”

  “Fascinating. Thanks for the update.” Lavender and something. That’s what she smells like. Lavender and vanilla and something else… Trouble. That’s definitely what I’m sensing. “Good night, then,” I say as I slowly swing the door shut.

  She sticks her leg inside, and the rest of her quickly follows. She is quick on her toes, despite her inability to climb three flights of stairs without falling backwards. Not that I minded.

  “I didn’t want to bother you,” she says, “but I need help…” She sighs and twists her lips to the side.

  “Are you going to make me guess what you need help with?”

  “I need help unzipping this dress in the back.”

  Now that she’s standing closer, I can also smell wine on her breath. Not something I noticed when she gave me the key. Guess I drove her to drink between then and now. I could use one myself. Hell, I needed one as soon as she ran toward me on the sidewalk and dropped to her knees. Okay, so she was running to my dog—but it will take a while for me to forget that image.

  “If I’m going to return it, I don’t want to risk tearing it, and I can’t quite reach the doodad for some reason. This thing is so tight, I’m afraid the sides will rip if I…”

  “Turn around,” I say. I honestly didn’t mean for it to sound like a sexual command, but for some reason it came out that way.

  She blinks her big hazel eyes, bites her lower lip, and then slowly turns her back to me. In one swift motion, she sweeps her long hair out of the way, over one shoulder, and then stands straight as a rod, her arms tight at her sides.

  This dress.

  The front is quite enchanting, or maybe it’s her cleavage that had me in danger of being under a spell.

  But the back of the dress, even though it covers a lot more of her, is even more enticing.

  It’s a long zipper, from the base of her neck all the way down to her waist. There are still a few hairs in the way, so I brush them aside, unable to avoid touching the bare skin of her long neck. I notice her shiver. She wraps her arms around herself, as if she shivered because she was cold. I’d better get this over with quick.

  I unzip her, not all the way to her waist. She can do the rest herself, I imagine. I can’t help but notice that there’s no bra under there, which is interesting.

  Her crossed arms slide up the front of her body, adeptly keeping her private parts in place and out of sight. She glances over her shoulder without turning around. “Thank you. Sorry to bother you.”

  “No problem.”

  She uses her foot to open the door. “Daisy settling in okay?”

  “So far so good.”

  I want to talk to her about her painting, but it doesn’t feel like this is the right moment, after I’ve basically just undressed her.

  “Great. Well…”

  “Hey, uh…”

  “Yeah?” She shifts her body around so that she’s half facing me, checks to make sure she isn’t showing any side-boob, and then decides to face me full-on.

  “I was just going to ask if there’s a good place that delivers around here.”

  “Well yeah, there are tons of good places! Actually, your aunt has a great list up in the kitchen by her phone. We pretty much order from the same restaurants. She has a landline. You don’t have to answer it. It goes straight to voice mail. Oh, and I forgot to tell you the thermostat is set pretty low, so you should turn it up at night. It makes a little noise when it starts up. That’s normal.”

  “Right. I am familiar with heating system noises. But thanks.”

  “Okay, then.” She furrows her brow at me, and I’m not sure why it feels so necessary to be such a dick to her. It just does. “Good night, Daisy!” she calls out, looking around for her.

  Daisy barks a happy “yarf” greeting from inside the guest room. She rarely barks, so it’s weird that she’d respond to a new person like that.

  “You know where to find me if you want to hang out with a nice human!” the new person yells out again.

  “I’m nice to my dog,” I growl.

  “Lucky her,” she snaps as she spins back toward the door.

  “Good night, Miss Farmer.”

  “Good night, your esquireship.”

  And then she’s gone.

  I get Daisy’s feeding station all set up in the kitchen and then check out Dolly’s impressively detailed food delivery list. I use an app, of course, so I don’t have to actually speak to a human being on the phone, but I’m too hungry to do all the research necessary to make an informed decision. According to the list, the fastest delivery after 7:30 p.m. is from a bar & grill, so I find them on my app and order a burger and fries and guacamole and chips because it has been that kind of week.

  It’s been years since I’ve h
ung out or eaten on the Upper West Side. The last time my parents came to visit, we all met up with Dolly, who insisted on eating at a bistro just south of Columbia University. It was actually really good, but I would never make the trip out there if I didn’t have to. And I guess Vanessa and I went to a fundraiser at the Museum of Natural History a couple of years ago…

  Vanessa.

  Fuck.

  My phone buzzes with a message, and what do you know? It’s from Vanessa. Three little words. How are you?

  Good question.

  I’m kind of numb.

  I’m in a weird place, emotionally, but I’d never admit that to another human being.

  I’m not clear if this is really a breakup or just a break, and I’m afraid to even talk to attractive women who aren’t you yet because I don’t need any of that Ross and Rachel “We were on a break!” drama.

  I miss you, but I’m afraid I might just be missing some glorified fantasy of you.

  I miss us, but I can’t remember the last time it felt like we were the Us that I loved.

  I don’t want to hate you, but I’m not thrilled by the way you’ve handled this situation so far.

  I’m wondering how it’s possible that you haven’t even asked about Daisy, even though you’ve always been kind of jealous of her and I used to think it was cute but now I’m afraid it’s because you might actually be a bit of a bitch.

  If you really did break up with me because of another guy, I wish you’d just fucking tell me. It would kill me, but at least I’d know.

  But what I type is: Fine. You?

  Hit Send.

  Maybe if I’d already changed out of my suit I would have been able to respond with a few more words, in the way that I know she’d appreciate, but fuck it. After four days of radio silence, a lot of guys wouldn’t respond at all. The animated dots tell me that she’s typing a fairly long response. I stare at the phone and wonder if, given her response, Daisy and I should go back to SoHo tonight. I guess I’ll wait until the food’s been delivered. Gotta take care of me first, right Oprah?

  Then the animated dots disappear. No response comes. I look down at Daisy, who is sitting by her water bowl staring up at me, like: “Oh, buddy. Just let her go already. I’m the only girl you need. You’ll see.”

  And not a minute later, I find out from Facebook that my relationship status has changed.

  Apparently I’m officially single again.

  3

  Bernadette

  Even though the walls between our apartments are quite soundproof, I was able to hear last night’s little outburst quite clearly. Normally, if I’d heard my neighbor yell out “What the fuck?” I would have sent Dolly an email to ask if she way okay. While I do have Matt McGovern, Esquire’s email address, it didn’t seem appropriate to check on him so soon after meeting him last night.

  While the walls of the building are thick and solid, due to a charming quirk of the vents and ducts, I can hear much of what goes on next door in certain spots of my apartment—mostly in my bedroom. Before Dolly’s current boyfriend was her boyfriend, he was an out-of-town friend staying in her guest room, and let’s just say I had the pleasure of hearing exactly what happened the night she looked in on him and asked if he needed anything, because the head of my bed is up against the other side of the wall that the headboard kept banging against. There is no other way to arrange my tiny bedroom. I did put my headphones on, once I realized that what he needed would take several hours (likely thanks to a prescription).

  Last night, after hearing Matt’s expletive, I waited and listened for any more signs of agitation, but there weren’t any. Not another bark from Daisy or her person, but then I heard him talking to someone who I assume was his assistant, followed by loud AC/DC music and some angry grunting (which I attributed to vigorous crunches and/or pushups). A couple of hours later when they were apparently both in bed, I heard him playing guitar for a few minutes and then saying such sweet things to Daisy that I almost liked him. He really is nice to his dog. I figured it must have been some kind of momentary work-related outburst. He seems like the kind of guy who only gets passionate about work.

  I didn’t see or hear him leave this morning, and if my boss hadn’t called to ask me to pick something up from Anita at her gallery on my way to his place, I probably would have spent at least five minutes on the floor of the fourth-floor hallway, trying to talk to Daisy through the crack under the front door. Love at first sight happens so rarely in life, it really shouldn’t be ignored.

  I’m here to pick up some of Sebastian’s favorite Italian watercolor paper, which Anita brought back from her most recent trip to Europe, but ever since I walked into her Chelsea gallery, I’ve gotten an earful about the testosterone pellet she’s recently had implanted in her back.

  “Look at my skin!” she says, “Feel how tight it is!” She grabs my hand and places it on her neck.

  “Very nice,” I say. Anita is a stunning fortysomething woman who owns an amazing art gallery, knows everything about everything, knows everyone who’s anyone, and has never been satisfied with her looks or energy levels for as long as I’ve known her. I have never been so exhausted and impressed by a woman. I can’t wait to get out of here.

  “At my age—at any age really, if you’re a woman, getting your hormones balanced is so important. Now I look younger, I have boundless energy, and I just want to hump everything!”

  “Well that is great news. So, I’ll just write you a check for the paper?” I pull out Sebastian’s checkbook. I love signing my name to Sebastian’s checks and credit card transactions. But not in a creepy I’m-pretending-to-be-his-wife kind of way. I just like to sign for things that I don’t actually have to pay for—who wouldn’t?

  “We live in exciting times,” she says. “I like what you’re doing with your hair. You seeing anyone special?”

  I have no idea why I think of my new temporary neighbor all of a sudden. “No, not at all.”

  “Ah. Still obsessed with your boss, I see.”

  “I’m obsessed with my job. And thinking about my boss and his needs is my job. That’s not the same thing. I’m just really good at my job.”

  “Oh, I bet you’re good at your job, little miss lips like two pillows.”

  “Anita. You’re the classiest gross lady I’ve ever known.”

  “I call it as I see it, sweetheart. You’ve been working for him, what? Three years now?”

  “Three and a half.”

  “And you’re what? Twenty-six?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Well fuck, honey. You should have a solo show by now. You need to quit. You still have time to make the Thirty Under Thirty Artists in NYC lists.”

  “I’ve never cared about those lists. I make more money than everyone I went to art school with.” What I don’t mention, what I never mention, is that I don’t just stay at this job because of my boss. I do this because I don’t want my hippie artist parents to lose their farm and end up on welfare. Which reminds me, I need to call them to make sure they remembered to pay their utility bills.

  “Yeah. Good for you. I’m glad he pays you so well. It’s practically impossible to find someone as qualified as you who’s also good at the mundane practical stuff. But you should be making art. Or love. Instead you’re making google-y eyes at a middle-aged married man who will never give you what you want or deserve.”

  “He is divorced, and he is thirty-eight. I thought you liked him.”

  “Of course I like him. I literally love him. But I’d never date him.”

  “Too old for you?”

  “Too much. Men like that—and you’d know better than anyone—are so busy being amazing they have very little left to give a woman. You need a man who can be your anchor so you can lose yourself in your work. I mean, you saw what it was like with Sebastian’s most recent wife.”

  “His most recent ex-wife.”

  She rolls her eyes at me, but I do know what she means. I just happen to think th
at I’m better at dealing with him than his ex-wife was. She wasn’t an artist, so she didn’t understand him. I’m his work-wife. I get him.

  Suddenly, I remember the crazy storm and power outage we had a couple of weeks ago, a couple of hours after I’d gotten home from work. He called me immediately, and I answered saying, “I’m fine, I’m at home!” foolishly thinking he had called to check up on me, but he was calling to ask where the flashlights and LED lanterns were.

  “It’s just easy for me to anticipate his needs,” I say to Anita, “and he inspires me. I’ve learned so much from him.”

  “Oh, honey.” She tsk-tsks. “You’re worse off than I thought. Well, I have to make some calls. Lovely to see you.”

  I refuse to apologize for this crush I have on my boss. It makes my job more fun and bearable. Except for the times when I wish he’d grab me and kiss me and he never does that—but no job is perfect. He’s a proper boss, and it just makes me like him more. I have no idea why I thought of Matt McGovern again when Anita mentioned needing an anchor. I could never really like a guy like that. I might like to do very specific things with a guy like that, but nothing more.

  When I let myself into the converted loft, I can hear Miles Davis on the house speakers, which means Sebastian’s in the zone, and I see my friend Tommy’s shoes by the front door, which means he’s here modeling for him. It means that this is going to be a great day because Sebastian will be in a good mood when he takes a break and I get to see my best friend, whom I don’t see enough of anymore because he lives in Brooklyn now, and while I may love being in Brooklyn, I hate going to Brooklyn. I would sooner donate one of my kidneys to him than spend almost two hours of my precious free time commuting to and from his borough and my place. That’s one of the reasons I got him this job. The other is that he’s a perfect fit for this project that Sebastian is working on.