by Bec Linder
“But now, it’s like the old Will has come back to us,” my father said. “He’s excited about life again. He’s even talking about going back to work.”
“That’s great,” I said. “I’m really happy to hear it.” We came into the large central room of the apartment, living room and dining room all in one, where Will and my mother were sitting at the table, picking at a platter of sliced melon. I crossed the room and bent to kiss my mother’s cheek, and then turned to slap Will on the back. “When’s lunch?”
“Hello to you, too,” my mother said, while Will slumped over the table and moaned about how I had broken his shoulder.
“Lunch is very soon,” Lumusi said, coming out of the kitchen carrying a plate of fried plantains. I gave her a kiss on the cheek as well, and she smiled up at me as she set the plate on the table. “I hope you’re hungry, Alex. I made all sorts of food for you. You are too skinny!”
“He looks pretty fat to me,” Will said.
“Coming to lunch was a mistake,” I said, but it wasn’t, really. Being henpecked by my family was oddly reassuring.
Lunch was, as my father had predicted, delicious. Lumusi had made jollof rice and chicken stew, and I ate until my stomach hurt. House rules dictated that nobody was allowed to talk business during meals, and so we chatted about the weather, Lumusi’s new grandson, and the Yankees.
After the meal, my parents wandered off—my mother to work in her office, my father to putter around in the garden—and Lumusi went into the kitchen to do dishes, leaving Will and me alone at the table. As soon as the room was clear, he leaned toward me and said, “I had an interesting conversation with Yolanda last night.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re still talking to Yolanda?”
“Yeah,” he said, and then, to my total surprise, turned bright red. “She’s sort of—well. I just think she’s an interesting person.”
“You were there for two days,” I said. “Will.”
“We talked a lot,” he said defensively.
“Look, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” I said. “I’m just surprised.”
“I am, too,” he said, groaning and covering his face with one hand. “I don’t know what happened. I feel like I got hit by a bus.”
“A bus of love,” I said. “Very sweet. She has some kind of fancy job, doesn’t she?”
“Investment bank,” he said. “She’ll be running a hedge fund within a decade. Anyway, this isn’t the point. She called me last night and said that Sasha came home crying and said that you were the world’s biggest asshole, and then shut herself in her room for the rest of the evening. Now, I happen to like Sasha, so I’m sure you’ll tell me it’s just a big misunderstanding and you’re already working on fixing it.”
I sighed and propped my elbows on the table, leaning my forehead against my closed fists. “You’re a meddling cretin, Will.”
“Thank you,” he said. “So what happened?”
I didn’t want to talk about it. “It’s not important. I overreacted. She’s right to be mad at me.”
“Wow,” Will said. “Alex Turner, admitting culpability? I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“Shut the fuck up, Will,” I said.
“Okay, okay, sorry,” he said. “So what did you do?”
“It’s really not important,” I said. “I flipped my lid and said—something unkind. What else did Yolanda tell you?”
He shrugged. “Sasha wouldn’t talk to her about it. And I’m not going to pump her for information, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Some brother you are,” I said. “Come on, Will. Throw me a bone. I don’t want to just show up at her apartment with a boombox, like some sort of stalker.”
“So call her,” he said.
“I did,” I said. “She texted me and told me to fuck off.”
“Huh,” he said. “Well, that’s promising.”
I frowned at him. “It is?”
“Yeah,” he said. “If she really didn’t want anything to do with you, she would have just ignored you. But if she’s responding, that means she wants you to make it up to her.”
“I spend entirely too much time apologizing to women,” I said.
“So quit being such an asshole,” Will said. “It’s really not that hard.”
“Yes, well, we can’t all be mild-mannered and boring,” I said. “What should I buy her? Jewelry? Expensive perfume?”
“You’re the one who’s fucking her,” Will said. “You figure it out. I’m not going to help you out of the doghouse. You probably deserve it.”
“For Christ’s sake, Will,” I said. “You’re useless. Do you think I should go over there this afternoon? Maybe she needs some more time to cool down.”
Will just shook his head at me. “It’s sad how you’re terrible with women.”
“You’re useless,” I said again, and stood up. “Fine. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” he said, and then called after me, as I left the room, “Say hi to Yolanda for me!”
* * *
I took a cab directly to Sasha’s apartment. No time like the present.
On the ride downtown, I stared out the window and thought about my checkered romantic past. Since the age of sixteen, I had never lacked for female companionship. I’d dated casually, screwed around, flirted with anything in a skirt, and even managed a couple of serious relationships. I tended to go for women who were elegant, accomplished, well-educated, worldly, and sophisticated. In short, everything that Sasha wasn’t.
But I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. She was more to me than a warm body. Maybe she couldn’t quote Thucydides at the dinner table, but being around her made me feel alive. Every time she opened her smart mouth and sassed me, my heart beat faster, and I felt wholly present in my body in that moment. Not thinking about anything else, not worrying about work, just there, with her, together. She was clever, ferocious, and devastatingly sexy, and somehow, without my awareness or permission, I had started to care for her.
It didn’t make any goddamn sense.
The cab let me off in front of Sasha’s apartment. I bounded up the steps to her front door, but then hesitated before I rang the bell. No perfume or jewelry—I could just imagine her accusing me of trying to buy her off—but I couldn’t show up empty-handed.
Ten minutes later, I was back with a bouquet of white peonies. “These are special flowers,” the man at the flower stand had promised me. “Can’t get them year-round. Whatever you did, she’ll forgive you.” Forgiveness was a lot to ask of twenty dollars’ worth of flowers, but I could use all the help I could get.
I rang the doorbell, and waited.
After a minute, I heard footsteps coming down the staircase. I straightened up, pulling my shoulders back, and trying to look contrite.
Sasha’s face appeared in the window. She looked at me, frowned, and turned to go back upstairs.
Unacceptable. I banged on the door and shouted, “Sasha, I need to talk to you.”
She shrugged dramatically, hands uplifted by her shoulders, and kept walking.
“I won’t go away,” I called. “Your neighbors will call the cops. It’s going to be really embarrassing.”
She stopped, and I saw her head tilt back—probably looking up at the ceiling in frustration. She was stubborn, but I was stubborn, too, and I didn’t intend to leave until she, at the very least, accepted the goddamn flowers.
I hated wasting money.
She came back to the door and looked at me through the glass. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and her eyes looked puffy and lined, like she had been crying or hadn’t gotten enough sleep. I knew the feeling.
I held up the flowers so that she could see them.
Something in her expression changed, a minute softening. She frowned at me, and shook her head, and then opened the door just a crack.
I quickly inserted my foot between the door and the jamb, in case she changed her mind. “Sasha, I’m sorry,�
� I said. I thrust the flowers toward her. “I just want to talk.”
She gave me a suspicious look, eyes narrowed, but she accepted the flowers and lifted them to her face, her eyes closing as she inhaled.
“I was wrong to get angry,” I said. “I know you wouldn’t have violated our contract like that.”
She opened the door fully, then, and let me into the building. “Come upstairs,” she said. “I don’t want my neighbors hearing all my business.”
We climbed the stairs in silence. I watched the sweet sway of her hips in her little running shorts, and then forced my thoughts into chaster pastures. I was trying to apologize, not fuck her on the living room rug.
The apartment was quiet, when we came into it, and I asked, “Is Yolanda here?”
Sasha shook her head. “She’s out with some friends.” She went into the kitchen and took a glass jar from the cupboard. She filled it with water and then arranged the flowers in it, moving the individual stems this way and that until she was satisfied.
I stood in the living room, waiting for her, trying to think of what to say.
I had rehearsed it, in the cab ride: the perfect speech, the exact words to make her forgive me. But now, watching her, I had forgotten all of it.
Finished, she came back into the living room and looked up at me, wiping her hands on her shorts. I touched her hair, her upturned cheek, and watched, delighted, as a pink flush spread across her face. She turned her head aside. “You called me a whore,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was.
“You told me you wouldn’t say it again, and then you did anyway,” she said.
I winced. “I know.”
“You can’t just apologize and think that makes it all go away,” she said. “I was just talking to him, and you came in and—”
“I was angry,” I said. “And—hurt.” I forced out the words. I didn’t want to talk about my feelings, but I knew I had to, if I wanted Sasha to forgive me. She would need to see me vulnerable, to know that I was sincere. “The thought of another man touching you—well. I wanted to kill him, so you should congratulate me on my admirable restraint.”
She gave me a small smile, just a wry upturn of her mouth. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t even punch him.” I sighed, and drew one hand over my face. “It wasn’t about the contract. Fuck the contract. Sasha, I’m—I’ve grown attached to you. I don’t want you to be angry with me. I want—”
She crossed her arms, looking amused, damn her. “You have to say it.”
“Use your imagination,” I said.
“That won’t work,” she said, “because I’m not totally sure what you’re going to say.”
For Christ’s sake. Women existed to torment me. “Fine,” I said, through gritted teeth. “I want to—to date you.” Fuck, that sounded so stupid. “I want you to—I don’t want it to be about money. I’ll give you money, of course, if you need it. But I want you to spend time with me because you want to.”
“That was very sweet,” she said. “It’s almost like you’re a real person with emotions and everything.”
“Sasha,” I growled, having reached the limit of what I could tolerate.
She must have sensed it, because she laid one hand on my arm and said, “I’m just teasing. It was sweet. You really upset me, and I’m still angry, and I don’t think I’m ready to forgive you just yet. But you can speed along the process by bringing me some more flowers.”
“Just tell me what kind,” I said, as raw and honest as I had ever been with another person, and she flung her arms around my neck and kissed me.
I slid one arm around her waist and held her close, her curvy body pressed against mine. She smelled incredible and felt even better. I wanted to take her to bed and keep her there all afternoon. But when I tried to deepen the kiss, she pulled away from me and took a step back.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in jeans,” she said.
The non sequitur made my head spin. “I wear jeans a lot.”
“I’ve only seen you in suits,” she said. “Or, like. In the remnants of a suit. You know, after you take the jacket off.”
“Believe it or not, I don’t wear suits when I’m not working,” I said. “Stick around long enough, and you might even see my hairy knees in shorts.”
“Heaven forbid,” she said. “Okay, you’re going to have to leave now. I’ve got stuff to do.”
I stared at her, bereft. “Stuff?”
She laughed at me. “Yeah, you know. Yoga class. A pedicure. Girl stuff.”
“When can I see you again?” I asked.
She made a show of thinking about it. “I dunno. Next week, maybe?”
“That’s too far away,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
“Well, I guess I could squeeze you in,” she said. “I’m a busy woman, you know.”
“Lunch,” I said. “Come over and I’ll cook for you. And yes, I do in fact know how to cook.”
She scrunched up her face. “You don’t have food in that apartment.”
I laughed. “Sweetheart, you’ve never been to my apartment. Trust me, I have plenty of food.”
“But—what do you mean, I haven’t been to your apartment? I was over there twice.” She frowned at me.
I was tempted to draw it out and watch her get more and more frustrated, but it probably wasn’t wise. I was, after all, still in the doghouse. “That’s my parents’ old apartment,” I said. “It’s on the market now. I don’t actually live there.”
I watched a variety of expressions pass over her face, until she finally settled on irritation. “That’s a really weird thing to do. Why would you let me think you lived there? I thought you were a serial killer or something. Jesus. Well, now it makes sense why you didn’t have coffee, or any furniture.”
“There’s a sofa,” I said. “And a bed.”
“That doesn’t count,” she said. “Okay, so give me the address.”
I did, grateful that she wouldn’t make me explain why I was telling her the truth now, and she wrote it down on a notepad. “Come over around noon,” I said. “Or whenever you get hungry. Is there anything you don’t like?”
“I’ll eat anything,” she said. “Except weird shit that isn’t really food, like snails.”
“No escargot,” I said. “Got it.”
“I’m going back to work,” she said. “By the way.”
My stomach dropped. I didn’t want her to. I knew what happened at the club, and the thought of those men pawing at her—
“I’ll just dance on stage,” she said. “That’s all. No private rooms.”
“You don’t have to work,” I said. “I’ll give you anything you need.”
“I know,” she said, “but I don’t want you to do that. It’s a terrible idea for me to start relying on you for money, because what happens when you get sick of me? If I keep working the whole time, then—”
“I am not,” I said, “going to get sick of you.”
“You can’t make that guarantee,” she said. “And I wouldn’t want you to, anyway. If you want to make this work, I can’t just, like, give up on life and let you give me an allowance. That’s pathetic. I don’t want to be your kept woman.”
“You didn’t seem to mind before,” I said.
“Yeah, that was before,” she said. “If you don’t want me to treat you like a client, don’t act like one.”
“Well,” I said. I couldn’t think of a rebuttal. “I suppose that’s fair.”
“Good,” she said. “So it’s settled. I’ll call Germaine this afternoon.”
“I still don’t like it,” I said. I knew her regulars would put pressure on her, and even if she managed to stave them off, the thought of all those hungry eyes watching her on stage made me sick to my stomach.
“Tough,” she said. “Deal with it.”
It was such a typical response, classic Sasha, that I started laughing. “You’re right,” I sa
id. “Suffering builds character.”
“Yeah,” she said. “So. Okay, I really have to go now. My yoga class starts in half an hour.”
“I like the idea of you wearing yoga pants,” I said. I bent down and kissed her again. “Tomorrow, then.”
She smiled up at me, and I felt my heart contract in my chest, like a fist closing.
I would have to buy her some more flowers.
* * *
I bought a dozen red roses, and had them delivered to her apartment that evening. I knew when she received them, because she texted me: I like tulips better
I grinned at my phone. Demanding woman.
I could do tulips.
I woke up early on Sunday morning and went out to buy the things I needed for lunch, and picked up a bunch of tulips on my way home. The buds were still tightly closed, and I imagined them opening slowly in Sasha’s apartment, blooming over the course of several days while she went about her business.
The doorbell rang exactly at noon, just as I was taking the food out of the oven to cool. I went over to the intercom and pressed the button. “I’ll buzz you in,” I said. “Come on up. Top floor, unit 9.”
A minute later, I heard a soft tap at the door, and went to let Sasha in.
She smiled at me as she came into the apartment. She was wearing a blouse tucked into a knee-length skirt, and she had a purse slung over one shoulder. Not her usual uniform of cut-offs and a t-shirt: she had dressed up for me. “You look nice,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said, a little shy. She looked around the apartment, eyebrows raised, and then said, “Wow.”
“I’m not sure how to interpret that statement,” I said.
She dropped her purse on the bench beside the door. “Good wow,” she said. “I didn’t really know what to expect. The building doesn’t look like much from the outside, but then there’s… this.”
I shrugged. “I got a good deal, and they let me renovate as much as I wanted.” The apartment had originally been a small one-bedroom, but I gutted it shortly after I purchased it. Now, aside from the bathroom and a small office, the entire unit was one open space, lit by skylights set in the vaulted ceiling.
Sasha made a slow circuit of the apartment, looking at the framed photographs on the wall, examining the plants growing on the windowsill near the bed. I had put the tulips in a vase on the bookshelf, and she smiled when she saw them, and touched one of the closed buds. “I can see you living here,” she announced.
