The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  “Interesting choice of words. Plans have a funny way of changing.”

  She walks past me to the bathroom and says as she shuts the door, “Especially if I have no desire to fuck them.”

  She can’t even look at me when she says that because it’s a lie.

  We will revisit this again later tonight, Foxy Roxy, and it definitely won’t be the rum in your system that changes your mind.

  When I’m out on the veranda, staring at the amazing sea view, breathing in the amazing warm air, and wondering which one of us is going to take a bath in the outdoor tub first, I hear creaky doors swing open. I turn to see Roxy peering out at me from the bathroom. Or rather—from the walk-in shower.

  “The shower opens up onto the veranda!” she says, all excited and almost as if we hadn’t been arguing for the past two minutes. “It’s like an outdoor shower!”

  I’m glad she’s excited, because this is the best news I’ve ever heard.

  “This is how you get from the bathroom straight to the outdoor tub!”

  “That is so clever and convenient.”

  “I’m gonna shower before dinner!” she says. “Is that okay?”

  “It is beyond okay. Take a shower, take a bath. Whatever you want. I’m going to stand right here. Do your thing.”

  She narrows her eyes at me and pulls the flimsy wooden doors shut. “Both of the bathroom doors have latches on the inside, FYI.”

  “I’m going to stand here and enjoy the stunning view of the water and the palm trees and the islands, FYI.”

  “Good, because that’s all you’re gonna see!”

  Not when I close my eyes, Roxy. You don’t even want to know what I see when I close my eyes.

  7

  Roxy

  I don’t know why I was expecting dinner to be a fun and casual chatty gathering of the six of us at a big table, but that’s what I was expecting.

  I should have known all of the tables in the resort’s restaurant would be for two.

  Matt and Bernadette have already been seated, and the hostess is showing Chase and Aimee to their table.

  “Did you want to join us?” Aimee asks me sweetly. “Would it be possible for us to push two tables together?” she asks the hostess.

  “No no, it’s fine,” I say, trying not to mope. “We’ll all have drinks at the bar after dinner, yeah?”

  “Definitely! Can’t wait!”

  “Buon appetito,” Chase says to us as we are ushered to the other side of the open-air room.

  Keaton has been strangely silent ever since I emerged from the bathroom in this dress. It’s not even a particularly special or revealing dress. I just thought it looked like the kind of thing a gal should wear while on vacation in Antigua. One of the perks of being an executive at an online clothing company is that you get tons of free clothes and accessories, and nobody else at the office was grabbing this breezy chiffon floral-print wrap dress. I didn’t realize it had such a high slit until I put it on here. When he saw me, his eyelids fluttered and his jaw tightened, and he just muttered, “That’s one helluva dress,” and I swear that’s the last thing he said. That was fifteen minutes ago.

  Then he changed into the kind of cuffed linen trousers that only a guy from Europe or an American dude who invests in hedge funds can get away with. He looks good, sure, and he’s got style—yeah. Stylish men can blow me, but I mean, I respect that he knows how to dress.

  The hostess stops in front of a table next to the railing, so I can look out at the sunset instead of Keaton’s face for an hour at least. Keaton pulls the chair out for me, waits for me to lower my ass to it, and then gently pushes it in toward the table. This is a ridiculous thing that has never happened to me before, so I thank him without thinking about it, but I mean… Of all the traditional gentlemanly gestures, I’d say this is the most useless and we can do without it. It’s not like I’m wearing a corset and a ball gown. I am quite capable of seating myself.

  “Thank you,” I say to him for a second time. “Thank you,” I say to the hostess when she hands me the menu. Apparently when I’m stupefied, I just get really polite and improve my posture.

  I accidentally glance over at his crotch when he’s sitting down across from me. He’s definitely wearing boxers, appears to be hanging to the right this evening, and is apparently quite well-endowed. Good for him. He catches me looking and grins. I hold my menu up in front of my face.

  Get over yourself, Keaton Bridges. My eyeballs slipped.

  “Anya will be your waitress tonight, but can I bring you something fun to drink while you look at our menu?”

  Before I can order a beer, Keaton says, “My beautiful girlfriend and I would both love something big, fun, and rum-based. Preferably served in a coconut. With an umbrella.”

  The hostess smiles. “We have many rum-based drinks, sir, but none of them are served in a coconut, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, surprise us. Bring us your favorite.” He winks at her.

  She nods and does a little curtsy before turning and walking away.

  “I hate rum,” I whisper.

  “You’ll learn to love it.”

  “Don’t ever order for me again.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. I just knew you’d never order a rum drink for yourself, and you need to try it at least once while you’re here. Get the full Caribbean experience.”

  “I’m certainly enjoying island life so far. I think it’s safe to say this is the first time I’ve ever had dinner with a man who wears loafers and no socks.”

  “Nobody wears socks with loafers.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve had dinner with a man who wears loafers, I mean.”

  He leans forward and places his hand on top of mine. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

  His hand is big and warm, and I slowly slide my hand out from under it because it’s way more important for me to vehemently butter my dinner roll than pretend to be his girlfriend at the moment.

  I chew angrily while staring at the most breathtaking sunset I have ever seen.

  I don’t even realize Keaton is taking a picture of me with his phone until he’s probably taken a thousand of them. I cover my face. “Hey!”

  “I couldn’t not take a picture of you with that sunset framing your scowling face.”

  I scowl at him.

  “I’m kidding. You weren’t scowling. Look.” He holds up his phone and shows me a few of the shots. Surprisingly, I do not look angry at all. I look serene. And pretty. Those may be the best pictures I’ve seen of myself in ages.

  “You’re not allowed to post pictures of me on social media.”

  “Again—I would not dream of it. I’ll send them to you. And keep them for my spank bank.”

  I laugh at that. Because Keaton Bridges saying the words “spank bank” is funny. Not because he’s funny.

  The hostess returns with two enormous glasses of a coral-colored liquid, each garnished with a giant slice of pineapple and an umbrella. “Caribbean Rum Punch,” she says in her deep, sing-song voice. “Pineapple and orange juice, three kinds of rum, fresh lime juice, and grenadine. My favorite and very delicious.” She smiles and nods as she places the glass in front of me. “Enjoy!”

  Keaton and I both happen to order the same meal, only I manage to order without winking at the waitress, and then I’m left alone with this guy once again.

  Keaton holds his glass out to clink against mine, just as I’m about to suck on the straw.

  “Oh. Cheers,” I say.

  “To warm breezes and sunsets and floral dresses with tasteful yet daring slits, and the fine-looking women who wear them.”

  “To socks and the men who always wear them in public.”

  He laughs at that. “Whatever, Socksy Roxy.”

  “Is that my new nickname?”

  “Nope. That’s just what I’m calling you right now because I’m so witty.”

  This cocktail goes down smooth, and it’s not too sweet at all. I smack my lips together.
It tastes even more fun than the margaritas at TGI Fridays. “I like it. The rum punch. Not the nickname.”

  “It’s not your nickname, and I knew you would. Tell me about your family.”

  “No. This isn’t a date.”

  “Tell me about your vagina, then.”

  “What?”

  “You wouldn’t tell a guy about your vagina on a date, would you?”

  “What kind of logic is that?”

  “We don’t have to talk at all if you don’t want to.” He shrugs and looks out at the sunset.

  “Okay, fine. My parents’ names are Joe and Melinda Carter. My dad’s a mechanic, and my mom’s an office manager. They live in Baltimore. They’ve always lived in Baltimore. I have a brother named Paul who lives in Canada with his wife and three dogs.”

  “What kind of a mechanic?”

  “He restores classic cars.”

  “Really? What’s his specialty?”

  “Corvettes. Second and third generation.”

  “From the sixties.”

  “Yes. You know about Corvettes?”

  “I have a passing knowledge. My best friend from high school, his dad collected them. Still does, I guess. Sting Rays.”

  “Yeah, ’65 is his favorite year. And ’63 of course, but he doesn’t get to work on many of those in Baltimore.”

  “I once saw a beautiful white ’65 Corvette convertible in the Hamptons. Maroon interior. Teakwood steering wheel.”

  “Ermine white. Yeah, my dad restored one of those. I helped him with that one, actually, when I was like sixteen.”

  “You helped your dad restore cars?”

  “Sometimes. I know my way around a lug nut.”

  “That isn’t arousing at all.”

  “Most men are totally turned off by the notion.”

  “I’m definitely not picturing you in cutoffs and a tiny T-shirt, covered in grease.”

  “Good, because I was working with my dad, so that would be really inappropriate.”

  “Right.”

  “I wore coveralls. With nothing underneath.”

  He chokes on his rum drink.

  “You okay over there?”

  “We don’t have to talk anymore.”

  “Oh, but I want to hear about your family.”

  “I don’t feel like talking about my family.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  “You didn’t have to talk about your family if you didn’t want to.”

  “That’s annoying.”

  “Why? We had a nice little conversation about Corvettes and garage porn. I feel so much closer to you now.”

  “I’m so happy for the local mosquitos. They’re gonna feast tonight.”

  “What would you like to talk about?”

  “We don’t have to talk about anything.”

  “You’re a really fun date.”

  “It’s not a date.”

  “What kind of office does your mother manage?”

  “An ophthalmology practice.”

  “Interesting. Your parents sound like they might be a little different.”

  “From you? Very.”

  “From each other.”

  “A little. I mean, I guess they used to be, but they’ve, you know. Merged. Over the years.”

  “Interesting.”

  “They have fun together.”

  “How?”

  “You want to know how my parents have fun together?”

  “We don’t have to talk at all if you really don’t want to.”

  We sit in silence for one terrible everlasting minute. He grins at me, and I fidget, and he’s amused by my fidgeting, and fuck this guy. “They just have fun with each other. Like all the time, doing anything. They tease each other and make each other laugh. They make up these stupid card games that only they know the rules to.”

  “Do they let other people play with them?”

  “No. It’s their own thing. I mean, they have their own game that’s called Poker? I Don’t Even Know Her! but they made up another game for Paul and me and they refused to give it a name, we’d just call it The Card Game.”

  “Did they make up the rules as you went along?”

  “No. The rules were very clear and pretty simple.” I describe the rules in great detail, as well as my favorite memory of the time we all played it on Christmas Eve at my grandparents’ house. I get teary-eyed and shift around in my chair and then polish off my Caribbean Rum Punch. “I can’t believe I just told you all that. How much rum did they put in this thing?” I say.

  “It’s not the rum,” he says. “That card game’s called Spades, by the way. You were playing Spades.”

  “No. It’s a card game that my parents made up for us.”

  “Okay. You get along with your brother?”

  “Yes. Why? You think I have a problem with all men? I don’t. It’s just you.”

  “So I’m special?”

  “You are uniquely infuriating.”

  “You are highly sensitive to my uniquely infuriating qualities.”

  “We’re oil and water.”

  He starts choking on his rum punch again.

  Was it something I said? “You okay over there, sweetie?”

  He gives me the thumbs-up and finally stops coughing. When he catches his breath, he says, “What we have is friction. Oil and water just glide right past each other.” He clenches his jaw for a second before continuing. “I’m more like a match that’s striking against your rough surface. Creating sparks. Producing a flame. Lighting you up.”

  “Rubbing me the wrong way.”

  “Just tell me how you like it, sweetie.” He winks. “I aim to please.”

  Thank God the waitress comes over with our dinner, because it feels like someone spilled a little oil and water in my panties and I am done bantering with this guy. No good can come of this.

  Keaton looks over his shoulder at Chase and Aimee and at Matt and Bernadette. They—and the rest of the diners in this restaurant—are in their own little happy couple bubbles. I watch him. The way he looks at them—it’s breaking my heart a little. He’s filled with longing. Not for them, although maybe it’s a little bit about that, but mostly for what they have. It takes me back to that moment with him on the deck, the night of the wedding.

  But I can’t go back there.

  We can’t go back there.

  It was lovely, but ultimately all it did was create even more of a barrier between us. For me, anyway. For whatever reason.

  “Are you going to call Tamara?” I blurt out. I don’t know why. I don’t really care one way or another, I just need to talk about something other than him rubbing me or how in love our friends are.

  He slowly turns back to face me and then picks up his fork to poke at the chicken medallions. He considers the question before answering, which is not something I’m used to with Keaton. He’s more of a snappy comeback kind of guy. “No. I’m not going to call her… There’s a Russian word. Razbliuto. It’s the sentimental feeling you have about someone you once loved. Someone you don’t love anymore. That’s what I have for her. It’s not even her that I miss, really. It’s being in love. Having someone to love. Being allowed to love someone.”

  I swallow hard and take a sip of water before clearing my throat and saying, “Yeah, I know the feeling.” I really do. But it’s not something I’m going to talk about with Keaton.

  Every now and then, I realize why Chase has been best friends with this guy since college. It’s a mystery to me most of the time, and then all of a sudden, I get this glimpse into the fascinating world beneath the manscaped tailored privileged Upper East Side golden boy on the surface—the one I want to dropkick. I don’t want to explore that world, but I like knowing it’s there. For Chase and Aimee and Finn’s sake.

  We’re mostly quiet for the rest of the meal, and it’s okay. It’s not awkward silence. It’s nice, even. It’s the kind of comfortable silence that fills a space between two people, maybe not with love or longing or
even friendship but with something that doesn’t need a word or a label in any language.

  8

  Keaton

  Drinks at the bar after dinner lasted all of thirty minutes before the married people claimed they needed to go back to their cottages to get a good night’s sleep. As if we aren’t all adults and friends who know perfectly well they’re going to be boning until the wee small hours of the morning. I think they just don’t want Roxy and me to feel awkward. Until dinner tonight, I didn’t think it was possible for Roxy Carter to feel awkward about anything, but she just couldn’t take the silence until I gave her an answer about Tamara.

  “I was really hoping for samar,” I say as Roxy and I watch the four of them meander, arm-in-arm, up the path to the cottages.

  “Who’s Samar?” she asks, finishing her cocktail.

  “It’s not a who, it’s a what. It’s an Arabic term. There’s no English equivalent. It means staying up late and having a good time with loved ones. The kind of conversations you only have with good friends at night. When you don’t even realize what time it is because you’re so happy to be relaxing and figuring out the meaning of life with the people who matter the most to you. And getting really drunk, usually.”

  I watch her swallow the last of her second rum punch as she digests the meaning of the word samar, and I know it’s what she wanted too. It’s what we’ve been missing. It’s why we’re here. A warm mist obscures the ice blue of her eyes for one brief second, and then it vanishes like a mirage. She obviously does not want to experience samar with me. “What are you—a linguist? And don’t say you’re a very cunning linguist, because I’m afraid if I roll my eyes one more time today they’ll stay that way.”

  “I actually minored in linguistics at Wharton.”

  She snorts, very lady-like. “A sentence only ever uttered by men who wear loafers with no socks.”

  “Did you just say the word ‘uttered’ out loud? You’re so pretentious.”

  She can’t help but grin at that callback. “You’re right. I meant ‘spewed.’”