The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  “No. I’m fine with it.”

  He scrubs his face with his clean, manicured hands. “Are we cool, Roxy?”

  God, it makes me nuts whenever he says my name. “Regarding?”

  “You know. The wedding. What happened between us.”

  “What happened between us at the wedding five years ago? You’re asking me now, five years later, if we’re cool?”

  “We haven’t seen each other that many times in five years.”

  “Five years is five years.”

  He blinks. “What are you saying? Did you want me to call you the next day or something?”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s not funny. In fact, it’s so not funny I sort of want to throw him in front of a bus, but I mean… He’s asking me if we’re cool—five years later. He’s asking me if he should have called me—five years later.

  He is not amused. “This is funny to you.”

  I can’t stop laughing. I’m laughing so hard I’m crying a little.

  “You think I’m an idiot for bringing it up now, but you’re the one who’s been trying to avoid me all this time.”

  “I’m not trying to avoid you. I just don’t want to see you. There’s a subtle but important difference.”

  “You don’t want to talk to me. About what happened between us.”

  “Nothing happened between us. We kissed.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I mean, it was a good kiss. Good kisses happen. To people. All the time.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What is there to talk about?”

  “Can you just answer this one question, and then I will never bring up this subject again, I promise you.”

  “What?”

  “Are you actually mad at me for not calling you after we kissed? Were you mad at me? Be honest.”

  Am I? Was I? Sort of? Maybe? I can’t answer this question.

  “Oh my God,” he says, slapping his hand to his forehead. “All this time you’ve been thinking I’m an asshole for not calling you.”

  “I think you’re an asshole for all kinds of reasons.”

  “Have you ever been in a serious relationship in your life?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because you act like someone who has never been in a serious relationship in her life.”

  “How would you even know how I act? We don’t really know each other. Just because we have the same best friends—”

  “Why is it so important to you to believe that?”

  “It’s not important to me. It’s true!”

  “Is it? Is that what’s true? That you and I don’t have any kind of connection? Because we’re different? Because I was a dick to my best friend and yours over seven years ago for like a month? Because another thing that’s true is that Chase and Aimee and I all made peace with each other and I became best friends with Aimee too and our circle of friends grew and included each other. And then everyone else got married and had kids except us, and one summer night on the deck of a loft in Greenpoint at our best friends’ wedding, you and I felt something—it may not have been for each other, but we felt something together—and we kissed. And it was a great fucking kiss and I liked it, and that doesn’t mean it had to mean anything more than that. But it happened and it happened between us. And you walked away from me because you didn’t want it to become anything else, and that’s fine. But it’s not fine for you to be mad at me because you think I should have called you, even though you made it very clear to me that you didn’t want it to go anywhere. You can be mad at me if you want, but you do not get to be mad at me for that.”

  My eyes are stinging. I have no idea what just happened. One minute we’re chatting on a sidewalk, and the next he’s mad at me. He doesn’t get to be mad at me!

  Why do I feel so much closer to him right now?

  Why am I so turned-on right now?

  I slide as far away from him as I can, backed up into the corner of the back seat, right up against the door.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Are you afraid I’m going to hit you?”

  No, idiot, I’m afraid I’m going to straddle you and never stop kissing you.

  “I think I should get out here.”

  “No.” He waves off that idea. “If you really can’t handle talking about it—I’m done talking. I’ll go to Chase and Aimee’s at ten thirty on New Year’s Eve. How’s that? Does that work for you? Because I will be going to Chase and Aimee’s. I will be going to hang out with my best friends, whether you’re there or not. Whether you like it or not.”

  This is the most intense and weird conversation I’ve had with anyone in years, including the time a crazy homeless woman cornered me on the F train and told me we knew each other in a past life.

  This is the most I’ve felt all year.

  It can’t be Keaton Bridges who made me feel this much.

  This is humiliating.

  Manny slows down and pulls over in front of my friend’s row house.

  I have to say something before I get out.

  Anything.

  I clear my throat. “Thank you, Manny.”

  “Have a good night, miss.”

  I don’t look at Keaton, but I turn my head slightly in his direction. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll, uh…I’ll be at Chase and Aimee’s at eight. Merry Christmas. Happy New Year if I don’t see you.”

  “Same to you,” he says.

  I nod. “Good night.” I get out of the car and shut the door, taking care not to slam it.

  The car drives off before I step to the curb.

  What. Just. Happened?

  My hands are trembling when I pull my phone out of my pocket. I have his number. I’ve never called or texted him directly, but we do group texts all the time.

  I have no idea what I should say to him in a text, but I can’t just leave things like this.

  Can I?

  Maybe I should.

  We’re both just in a bad mood because of the holidays.

  We’re both just annoyed because we don’t have a real boyfriend or girlfriend to get into a fight with.

  It’ll blow over.

  Or maybe I’ll finally convince Chase and Aimee to have two separate birthday parties for Finn every year. We can do a time-share the next time Aimee gives birth. I’ll definitely leave the New Year’s Eve party by nine thirty.

  I slip my phone back into my pocket.

  We can definitely avoid each other, for the most part, for at least another five years or so.

  It’ll be fine.

  3

  Keaton

  * Early February *

  “Just go. Come on. I’m begging you. I appreciate that you have your principles and you know what you want and what you don’t want. But there is no ideal situation that I can create for you right now that will make you happy. However, I know for a fact that both of us will feel better about literally everything if you just go.”

  All of New York is covered in gray snow and slush, and my dog refuses to take a dump outside unless the ground is solid, perfectly level, and above sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. All winter I’ve kept the floors in his room covered with pee pads. All winter he’s been relieving himself on the floors of my two-million-dollar townhouse and then getting cabin fever because he refuses to go for walks with me. I put waterproof dog boots on him. He’s wearing a doggy coat. I’ve tried to coax him with treats. I’ve got my biodegradable poop bag ready to go. All around us, dogs are defecating and their owners are getting on with their Sunday, but my dog—my adorable furry demon child—is refusing to squat, move, or acknowledge my existence.

  I am internationally renowned for being a skilled negotiator when it comes to business deals of all kinds. I once literally charmed the socks off my opponent in a tennis match back in high school. There is only one woman on earth I haven’t been able to convince to go out with me, and she is now the mother of my best friend’s child, so I’m fine with that. But there is literally nothing I can say or do
to convince this canine to shit in the snow.

  I am so fucking ready for this winter to be over. The only trips I’ve taken in the past couple of months have been to Chicago, Seattle, and Toronto. I haven’t seen the sun in weeks. I can’t even remember the last time I socialized with anyone unless it was a dinner meeting. The gang cancelled our monthly brunch because they all have so much to do before going on their little couples getaway next week, so after I get home and dry Jackpot off—if he’ll let me—I plan to look into a last-minute weekend getaway to some tropical island. By myself. Because why the fuck not. There’s no shame in it. Maybe I’ll go to one of those resorts for singles only. They still have those, right?

  “Right, buddy?” I say to the dog who’s supposed to be my buddy. He looks straight ahead at nothing in particular. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, pull it out, and see that it’s Vince Devlin calling. Probably to ask me to do him some kind of favor so he can get out of town next week with his wife. Not like I’ve got anything better to do.

  “Mr. Devlin.”

  “Hey man, you got a minute?”

  I look down at Jackpot, who is standing perfectly still, like no dog ever. “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “Just wondering what you got planned for next week and if you can take a few days off from work.”

  “Why?”

  “Turns out Nina and I won’t be able to go to that resort in Antigua…What?...I’m talking to him now…Nina says ‘hey.’”

  “Hey, Nina.”

  “Are you flirting with my wife?”

  “Nope. You were saying?”

  “Nina’s parents were gonna fly in to stay with Joni because my dad and stepmom are on a cruise and my brother’s looking after Charlie and they both have the flu. Anyway, her dad just threw his back out. He can’t move, so Nina’s mom has to stay with him. Now we’re all just gonna go to Indiana to be with my in-laws for a week.”

  “Yeesh.”

  “Yeah. I mean, they’re nice. It’s fine. So do you want our reservation? You got some girl you can take?”

  I am shocked—shocked—by the first girl who comes to mind when he asks me this. “Yeah. Definitely.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Definitely. Send me the info, I’ll Venmo the money.”

  “No rush.”

  “I will Venmo the money immediately.”

  “Okay, cool. Glad this worked out for you.”

  “I mean, I’m not glad your father-in-law threw his back out, but thanks for calling me.”

  “Course. Who’s the girl?”

  “I’ll let you know.” I end the call and consider my options.

  I perused the resort’s website last month out of curiosity. They are strictly a couples-only establishment, but it’s not like you have to be married. They just don’t cater to single guests. I could easily convince one of the women I’ve dated over the past few years to accompany me. What am I saying? I wouldn’t have to convince any of them. All I’d have to do is ask. Problem is—I wasn’t even interested in asking any of them out for a second date. Do I really want to deal with introducing one of them to my best friends and hope that they all get along?

  Or…

  Do I want to try to convince the one woman who I know gets along with my best friends that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have to share a cottage with me in paradise and pretend to like me in front of the hotel staff for one week?

  I finally lead Jackpot back toward home, and just as I’m about to call Chase to ask him how he thinks I should handle this, Aimee comes up on my Caller ID. I pull my dog under the Rite Aid awning before answering.

  “Mrs. McKay.”

  “Hi! Hey—I just called Roxy to ask if she had a guy she wanted to take to the resort, and then Vince texted to say that you’re paying for his reservation. Who are you taking?”

  That sinking feeling again.

  “Who did Roxy say she wanted to take?”

  “Nobody. She said to ask you.”

  I cannot control the stupid smile that’s spreading across my face. “She said she wants to go with me?”

  She laughs at that. Hard. “Um, no. She said to ask you if you want to go with someone else. She doesn’t want to go at all.”

  “Why doesn’t she want to go? Is she crazy…er than we thought she was?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t really want to talk about it.”

  Of course she didn’t.

  “But I mean…if you don’t mind staying in a cottage with her for a week…I would really love to hang out with her there. Both of you, I mean. I think she really does want to go, and I mean, if there’s a zombie apocalypse in Brooklyn while we’re gone and there’s no one here to help Roxy out, I would never forgive myself.”

  “I’m pretty sure the zombies will leave her alone as soon as she opens her mouth.”

  She snort-laughs at that. Long and hard. “That’s not funny. Look, I know how you guys feel about each other, but I think I speak for all of us when I say that we miss both of you and it would be great to spend some time with you for real.”

  How do Roxy and I feel about each other, exactly? Please tell me. “Does she still live where you used to live?”

  “Yes. You aren’t going to go over there, are you?”

  “I do not expect her to respond to my texts or calls.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of how we feel about each other.”

  “Right. Well. Text her first. She hates it when people just show up uninvited.”

  “I would like to remind you that I am a properly socialized human being.”

  “I would like to remind you that Roxy isn’t. She will knee you in the balls. She once made a guy cry when he showed up at our dorm with flowers and chocolates when she was trying to study for an exam. But she’s got a good heart.”

  “And I’ve got balls of steel. I can handle her.”

  She snort-laughs again. “Sure you can. Wait—Finn! Put that back in the garbage! I gotta go.”

  And that was the longest phone conversation I’ve had with her in almost five years.

  Jackpot barks at me. “Just give me a minute. Look—there’s hardly any snow on the sidewalk here!” I tell him. “Do your thing.” He stares at me blankly and then looks away.

  I am three blocks from my place and six blocks from Roxy’s. As much as I want to take the dog home—a guy should only have to deal with one asshole at a time—I still need to establish myself as the alpha in this relationship. Fuck, I still need to establish this as a relationship. Between Jackpot and me, I mean.

  And between Roxy and me, let’s be real.

  I’ve never texted her directly before, just group texts. But here goes.

  ME: This is Keaton Bridges. I’m taking you to Antigua next week. You at home right now?

  I do not expect any kind of response, but the moving dots appear immediately.

  ROXY CARTER: You are not, and none of your business.

  ME: We’ll be there in ten minutes.

  ROXY CARTER: Who’s we?

  ME: You’ll see.

  ROXY CARTER: Do not come over.

  ME: So you are at home.

  ROXY CARTER: None of your business, and I am not going to Antigua with you.

  I put the phone in my pocket and tug on Jackpot’s leash. “Let’s go, boy,” I say in my deepest, most authoritative voice. It works. He immediately follows, and I try not to show how surprised and grateful I am. I make a mental note to use the same tone with Roxy.

  About ten minutes later, we’re in front of her building on Clinton. The last time I was standing here, I got shot down by her former roommate, but I am in no mood to take “no” for an answer today. I buzz “R. Carter” and fully expect to have to call her, but I’m greeted with static and a husky voice.

  “What?”

  “That how you always answer your intercom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Figures. Come down and talk to me for a minute.”

  �
�No thanks.”

  “Come on. I’ve got my dog with me. I don’t want him getting your apartment dirty.”

  “Neither do I.” There’s a short pause. “You have a dog?”

  “You know that.”

  “I had no idea you had a dog. Why would I know that?”

  “Will you please just come down? Unless you want to let us up. These are your options.”

  “Or I could just not come down or let you up.”

  “I will wait here until someone lets me in.”

  “This building has a no dog policy.”

  “Well, I have a quit fucking around and get down here now policy.”

  “I’m not going to Antigua with you.”

  “Come down and let me calmly explain to you why you are.”

  I get no response. No static. No buzz, no door clicking open.

  She’s coming down. I know she is. She knows I’ll just keep bugging her if she doesn’t.

  “She’s coming down,” I say to Jackpot. “Look cute.” He’s facing away from me, staring up the street. “Good boy.”

  A minute later, a blonde in a long puffy black coat and winter boots comes to the door, and somehow, I forget to breathe.

  Those ice blue eyes are fixed on mine in something between a glare and a dare, and I cannot look away.

  I take a step back when she opens the door. Fucking hell, she looks good. Even in a puffy coat and winter boots. I haven’t seen her since the Christmas party and that weird argument or whatever it was in my car afterwards. “Your hair’s different” is what I say before I can think of something a little less lame.

  She brushes a few loose strands out of her face and says, “Yeah. This is your dog?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Would you like to see the adoption papers?”

  “I think he’s the one who needs to see them. What’s his name?”

  “Jackpot.”

  “Hey, Jackpot.” She bends down, and all of a sudden, Jackpot’s tail is wagging and he turns around to jump up on her legs. “Hey, boy. You’re so cute. Look how cute you are! Look at you in your little coat and your little boots. We match! We match, don’t we?” Jackpot barks once in agreement, and then Roxy stands up and gets in my face. “I don’t want to go with you.”