The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  She takes a deep breath, and I don’t even pretend not to watch her breasts rise and fall. However, the thing that’s really knocking me on my ass and turning me on right now isn’t those gorgeous mounds. It’s her straightforward honesty. Now there’s a trait I’ve never looked for in a woman, but now that I’ve seen it in action, I can’t get enough.

  She continues, “But I’ve recovered now. The brain cells are back in place. I am not mad at you for not texting me the day after we had intercourse, and I am still grateful that you brought my laundry up. And to be really honest, I probably just wanted to be mad at you because it was easier than thinking about how…”

  “How what?”

  She bites her lower lip and shakes her head. “Nothing. Anyway. We’re good.”

  “Good.” I lean in a little more to whisper in her ear. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how great it was and how hot you were, and I want you back in my bed tonight.”

  I stand back from her just as Mrs. Benson returns to the kitchen, oblivious to the fact that Bernadette’s giving me a hot look and I was about one second away from throwing Miss Farmer over my shoulder and charging up to my apartment. This is going to be a long night. My only consolation is knowing that it’s going to be just as long for Bernadette as it is for me.

  Most of the other guests have arrived, and they do nothing to make me think that Bernadette may have been exaggerating when she warned me about Mrs. Benson’s dinner parties. I know why I agreed to come tonight, but I have no idea why she’s here. Except that she’s a nice person who seems to like retired ladies. We’re introduced to Pearl, a fiftysomething woman who used to work in a human resources department with Mrs. Benson. She calls our hostess Regina, and I’m pretty sure that Pearl and Regina either hate each other or have had a secret lesbian affair that ended badly. There’s a married couple (whose names I didn’t get and will never remember) who seem to have agreed to come tonight because they were looking for a sublet in this neighborhood last month. Mrs. Benson invited them up to see her apartment, and they’ve kept in touch because one day she “might” sublet this place and move to a smaller one that doesn’t have so many memories of her dearly departed husband. And there’s Mrs. Benson’s accountant—Carl. Carl is a little older than me, significantly shorter, not bad-looking, and he walks in wearing a vest and a fedora. He doesn’t remove the hat until he’s made sure everyone has seen him in it, and then he carefully places it on top of the coat rack by the door. I want to punch him in the face as soon as I meet him because it is obvious that he was invited tonight so he could be introduced to Bernadette.

  He puts one hand on her elbow when they shake hands, and then he goes in for a hug. It’s nauseating. “The lovely Bernadette. I hear you’re a painter,” this Carl guy says to her with a smirk. “What restaurant do you wait tables at?”

  Oh come on. I hate him. I can tell she does too. I can’t wait for her to unleash the sass on this poor unsuspecting idiot. But she just smiles politely and tells him that she works full-time as an executive assistant to a famous painter and doesn’t have time to do any painting herself currently. A standard answer.

  Great—now he’s going to ask who she works for and I’m going to have to hear her say his name like she’s twelve and he’s a boyband.

  But again, she surprises me by saying, “His name is Sebastian Smith,” in a very casual way before excusing herself to go visit the poodle in the bedroom.

  Is it weird that I feel a slight twinge of jealousy because she cares about another dog besides Daisy?

  “Matt!” I turn to face our hostess, who is yelling at me enthusiastically. “Last but not least—come meet my niece, Liza!”

  As Mrs. Benson drags her niece toward me, I can confirm that Bernadette was not the one she intended to introduce me to. Liza appears to be in her early twenties, has dyed jet-black hair, is perfectly pretty despite wearing far too much make-up, probably has an eating disorder, and gets tears in her eyes as soon as she sees me.

  “Oh Jesus,” she mumbles. “Seriously, Regina? In what world?”

  In my peripheral vision, I can see that Bernadette has returned from the bedroom and is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching in amusement.

  “Liza’s parents are in Chicago for the weekend, and I wanted to make sure she eats something.”

  “Because obviously I’m an infant.”

  “And I wanted her to meet you! Liza, this is Matt McGill from upstairs! I don’t know why she’s crying—Liza, why are you crying?”

  “Matt McGovern. Hi. Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand to shake Liza’s.

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure you’re thrilled to meet me,” Liza mutters. She turns to her aunt. “Was Bradley Cooper not available? Because there’s just as good a chance of him wanting to date me.” She turns back to me. “I’m so sorry you got dragged into this. Feel free to leave now and go to…your GQ photo shoot or whatever.”

  Bernadette is covering her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

  Regina Benson tries to loosen up her niece’s tight shoulders. “Don’t listen to her! Liza, you’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “I’m uh—I’m happy to stay for dinner.”

  “I just love being surrounded by youthful energy! Now that Liza’s finally here, we can sit for dinner and you two can start getting to know each other.”

  “Seriously. You don’t have to talk to me. As you can see, I’m not living my best life right now. You can go ahead and talk to the hot one over there.” She gestures toward Bernadette.

  Trust me, Liza. I would very much like to.

  Mrs. Benson has Bernadette and me help her bring out all five dishes at once, and they’re all lukewarm, even the salad.

  “Let’s all go around the table and say our favorite book and why it’s our favorite! It’s a great conversation starter! I’ll go first! Eat, Pray, Love! Because it gave me the courage to open myself to love again after losing my Marty.”

  “And how’s that working out for you, Reggie?” snipes Pearl from the other side of the table.

  “Better than the Bumble app has been working for you, my dear. Bernadette, you next! Favorite book and why!”

  Bernadette seems to have her answer ready, probably because she’s been to a dinner party here before. “My favorite book is called Just Kids by Patti Smith. It’s about her friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe, and it’s beautifully written, and I loved reading about two passionate young people in love with their art and New York and each other.”

  “Wasn’t Mapplethorpe gay?” asks Carl.

  “You’ll have to read the book,” she says, raising her shoulder to her chin, but I can tell she wants to punch this guy in the face.

  “I’ll take your word for it. My favorite book is everything Stephen King has ever written because I like to read them, and screw you to anyone who thinks he’s a hack.”

  “I love all of his early work,” Liza practically yells out. “Up until Bag of Bones.”

  “Well then, half-screw you.”

  “I do find Stephen King’s work interesting from a pop culture standpoint,” says Pearl, as if giving a seminar, “but it’s hardly literature.”

  “Nobody said it was!” both Carl and Liza blurt out at the same time.

  “I have a long list of books that I’d call my favorite, but if I had to choose one, I’d say it’s Tolstoy’s War and Peace.”

  “As opposed to Danielle Steele’s War and Peace,” Mrs. Benson quips. She might be holding an imaginary cigarette.

  Pearl ignores her and continues. “Of the hundreds of books I’ve read, it’s the most brilliant, profound, unpredictable, and all-consuming.”

  “Next!”

  I’m not sure why Mrs. Benson invited Pearl, because they seem to hate each other, but she referred to her as the only friend she keeps in touch with from work. Also, I don’t really care about anything besides Bernadette right now. I just hope no
one can tell that I’m currently picturing her sliding off her chair under the table and crawling toward me on her hands and knees…

  The married couple talk over each other for five minutes, criticizing their spouse’s taste in absolutely everything, and Bernadette and I keep exchanging furtive glances while hiding our smirks behind wineglasses. When it’s time for me to proclaim my favorite book, the truth is that New York Contract Law is my favorite book to refer to on a regular basis, but that usually leads to more questions about me being a lawyer, and I don’t want to get into it with this crowd. This is the most awkward combination of dinner party guests I’ve ever seen.

  “My favorite is whatever recipe book you used to cook this delicious meal, Mrs. Benson,” I say without a hint of irony—really.

  Bernadette rolls her eyes at me, Mrs. Benson totally falls for it, and everyone else scoffs.

  “Where are you from, Matt?” asks Mrs. Benson without giving Liza a chance to tell everyone what her favorite book is.

  “Your crazy wet dream,” Liza mumbles. “And my favorite book is A Discovery of Witches because I like it—thanks for asking!”

  I notice Bernadette waiting for my answer, even though Carl is going on and on to her about the pros and cons of the various dating apps he’s been abusing.

  “I grew up in Santa Barbara,” I say to Mrs. Benson. “California.”

  “Oh, lovely! Liza’s always wanted to go there, haven’t you, Liza?” Before Liza can answer, she continues, “Oprah lives there, doesn’t she?”

  “I think she’s in Montecito, yes, which is in Santa Barbara County.”

  “Do you have siblings? Liza is an only child.”

  “I can speak for myself, you know,” she grumbles to her aunt.

  “Well then, why don’t you do that instead of mumbling to yourself?”

  Liza rolls her eyes and then angles her body toward me slightly, without actually looking directly at me. “Um…do you have siblings?”

  Again, I catch Bernadette’s gaze darting over to me, but she quickly looks away when she realizes I’m looking at her. “I’m an only child too, actually.”

  “Oh yeah—me too!”

  “Look at that,” declares Mrs. Benson. “Something in common!”

  Liza guffaws. She is exasperated. “Are you really even single?” she asks, still barely turning her head to look at me.

  “I am. I just got out of a long-term relationship.”

  “Why’d you break up?” Carl stops midsentence in his conversation with Pearl and Bernadette to ask me this with a challenging tone. I’m not a big fan of this guy. If Mrs. Benson actually thought that he and Bernadette would hit it off, she may be kookier than I thought.

  Bernadette doesn’t look up at me, but her body has gone still, and I can tell she’s waiting for my answer.

  “We grew apart,” I finally say. It has become my standard response, and it’s the simplest way to convey the truth of the matter. It’s certainly all that Carl needs to know about the situation.

  “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Been there. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.”

  “I heard that,” the married guy says. I can hear his wife punch his leg under the table. I’m not sure if they’ll be married much longer.

  After staring at me, for what feels like an eternity, Pearl blurts out, “I’m only saying this because I’m slightly intoxicated, not because I’m a bitch, but I don’t think you’re all that handsome, Mr. McGovern.”

  Everyone else in the room but Pearl and I burst into fits of laughter.

  “I agree,” I say.

  “Right? But I don’t mean it as an insult. You guys—stop laughing! He’s got magnetism. I mean, yes, he has a perfectly symmetrical face and a perfect body from what I can tell, and it’s hard not to stare at him, but it’s because of his magnetic personality.”

  “Thank you,” I say as earnestly as possible, because how the fuck else am I supposed to respond to that.

  “Bullshit!” Mrs. Benson yells out! “Bull! Shit! You are such a phony, Pearl Wexler. Why can’t you just admit you’re lusting after him? You think that makes you an intellectual? You think you’re better than us if you aren’t drooling over a man? Look at Bernadette! She couldn’t care less about him, but she’s not flaunting it like an asshole!”

  “There it is! Here we go! It’s not a party until Regina starts yelling at me.” Pearl raises her wineglass in Mrs. Benson’s direction, spilling it a bit. “Doesn’t matter if it’s coffee and donuts in the break room or a birthday dinner at the Algonquin—the grand tradition continues!”

  “Oh yes, as always, let’s make this all about you!”

  Finally, Bernadette’s eyes meet mine. We both struggle to suppress our smiles. We both inadvertently stare at each other’s lips before looking away.

  I get a second wind, knowing that within a couple of hours, we will be one floor up and those lips will be touching mine.

  12

  Matt

  Bernadette and I are the last to leave, but it’s not even nine thirty yet.

  Needless to say, the dinner never got any better. At one point, Liza leaned in to smell my shoulder with her eyes closed, sighed, and then she just ignored me for the rest of the night. No one stuck around to chat over coffee in the living room once we’d finished dessert. I’ve never seen people leave a dinner party so quickly and never wanted so badly to be one of those rude and hasty people. Mrs. Benson requested that I help her return the dining table to its original four-seater state, which also meant clearing the table first. Bernadette offered to help with that. Mrs. Benson ran to her bedroom to check on Alessandro, declared that she needed to take him for a quick walk, and she would do the dishes as soon as she was back.

  It’s a strange combination of torture and relief to be left alone with Bernadette in this apartment, knowing that our hostess could return at any moment.

  We don’t say a word to each other the entire time she’s gone, and that’s how I know for certain that she is as eager and conflicted about getting into bed again as I am.

  No one seems to have noticed our many furtive looks and stolen glances all evening, which is surprising because it felt so obvious to me that my attention was entirely focused on her. Now, Bernadette basically only makes eye contact with my crotch and my hands while we are piling dirty dishes into the sink.

  When she reaches out for me to pass her the empty wine decanter, I place it in her hands and then let my fingers lightly graze up the inside of her bare arm. I push her hair out of her face. She shivers in exactly the way I wanted her to, but she still refuses to look up at me. I am about to lean in to kiss her. When I hear the front door open, we quickly back away from each other like school kids who are afraid of getting caught.

  “You would not believe what we just saw!” Mrs. Benson calls out as she lets the poodle off the leash. “Carl and my niece sucking face, right there on the sidewalk on Broadway! I’m so sorry things didn’t work out for you two,” she says, but she doesn’t look like she feels sorry for us at all. “I’ll have to have a good think about who I can invite for you both next time.” Her eyes get that impish glint in them again when she says, “Unless you’re both spoken for by then, of course.” She attempts a slow wink, I think, but just kind of closes her eyes while opening her mouth wide for a second.

  “Great!” we both say at the same time, a little too loudly, a little too quick to respond.

  We both give her a hug as we leave, thanking her so much for a fun evening, overcompensating without guilt as we speed-walk toward the front door.

  All in all, it wasn’t the worst two and a half hours of my life, and I feel like it was all worth it as soon as we walk out into the hallway and I hear Bernadette take in a long. deep breath, preparing herself for the night that’s about to begin. To be honest, it feels like this has all been building up to so much more than just this next encounter. But, first things first.

  As soon as we turn the corner of the stairwell
, I pull her to me and kiss her. When I pull away from her, her eyes are still closed, her lips still mid-kiss. I run up ahead of her, feeling like an adolescent boy once again, as if it’s the running that’s making my heart race.

  Oh wait—I forgot that I was rooting for the sex to be worse this time so I wouldn’t get hooked. Oh well. Maybe next time.

  When we get to the top of the stairs, she grabs on to my shirt and pushes me against the wall. Her eyes are practically glowing with desire. All of the glowing desire that she’s been successfully hiding until now. She raises her face up to kiss me and then retreats back, teasing me, as she starts unbuttoning my shirt.

  “Tell me—is that the first time a woman has cried the first time she looked at you?” Her voice is hushed and husky, and every word out of her mouth just sounds like “sex sex sex” to me.

  “It was, and I hope it’s the last. At least she didn’t laugh.”

  She pauses for a moment, fumbling with one of the buttons. “I don’t believe I’m the only one who’s done that.”

  “You are.”

  She pulls me toward her and kisses me hard, probably trying to make me forget that she laughed when she first saw me. I never will.

  “What’s your favorite book, really?” she asks in between kisses.

  “It’s a legal reference book.”

  The kissing comes to an abrupt halt. She frowns. “Why am I not surprised. That’s your favorite book? Really? Like, if you could only read one book over and over for the rest of your life—that’s what you’d pick?”

  “I couldn’t do my job without it.”

  She shakes her head, genuinely disappointed. “We are very different.”

  “We agree on that. Don’t let it stop you from coming over.”