“I’ve had friends like that,” he says, “the ones you outgrow but keep anyway.”
When he says this, a wind blows through me. I can’t tell if it feels happy or sad to realize he’s right. Lulu and I met nearly three years ago at Columbia, and have clung to each other in these months post-graduation when we’re told we’re supposed to have some idea how to adult. She’s my only girlfriend here, and I’ve wanted it to be great even if it didn’t always feel like we fit so well anymore.
“I think you’re pretty drunk to be making such sweeping statements.”
He giggles. “I’m your husband, don’t I get a say?”
He stops laughing, and for the duration of an inhale looks completely sober—in this exact moment we’re both struck by the absurdity, the incomprehensibility of our situation. And then he closes his eyes and the hysteria bubbles out of him, round and unstoppable. I have to take the water glass from his hand so he doesn’t spill it or drop it on the carpet. Calvin gets control of himself again while I watch in amusement, and then without warning he reaches up, tugging me down over him, tucking me so that I’m trapped sweetly between his body and the back of the couch. An ache spreads up my thighs, and settles heavily between my legs.
His breath is humid on my neck. “I think you might be the best girl there ever was.”
The heat of his bare chest against me sends a paradoxical shiver from my throat to my toes. I open my mouth to respond, trying to find words through the haze of the reality of him—the virtuoso musician, this silly boy rolling around on my couch, his shirtless form pressed so easily to mine—but when my simple “Thank you” makes its way to the surface, he’s already asleep.
“I think you’re the best boy there ever was, too.”
fifteen
“For the love of God, who do I have to blow to get a fucking electrician over here?”
It’s nearing the end of rehearsal and there’s barely a hiccup when Brian screeches this into the backstage abyss. Coming from anyone else, this rhetorical would be met with an array of saucily raised hands, but none of us can even get it up to joke about getting sexual where Brian is concerned.
I click a surreptitious photo of his rage face and then show it to Calvin, who’s standing beside me, waiting for Robert to finish up auditioning a new percussionist.
“Wow,” Calvin whispers. “That one’s sour as vinegar.”
“Don’t even get me—”
“Holland.” Brian materializes like a dementor in front of me, and I lower my camera as inconspicuously as I can. “You think this is the time for photos? You have seventeen boxes of merch up front to unpack, and two hours until tonight’s show.”
Mortified, I glance quickly to Calvin.
“Don’t look at him,” Brian growls, and snaps crisply in front of my face. “He’s not going to touch a box with those hands. Get up front, and get unpacking.”
I feel so belittled; I can’t even meet Calvin’s eyes right now. With a tight “Sounds good,” I turn and head toward the front of the house.
I hate Brian.
I hate Brian.
This is why no one corrects you when you say expresso, or ex cetera, I think, all the way down the aisle. This is why even Robert didn’t tell you when you had toilet paper on your shoe.
Is it time for me to start looking for another job? The thought makes me laugh, because that time came and went about two years ago. If I haven’t started my novel by summer—a lofty goal, considering I don’t even have an idea—maybe I can find something as an intern at a magazine? I think of the connections I have and wonder if it’s time to send out more feeler résumés.
Turns out Brian was exaggerating slightly about the loads of boxes to unpack: there are four, and they’re tiny. I’m guessing they’re full of key chains and embroidered knit caps. Even with only one arm it will take me, at most, ten minutes to put this stuff away.
A low whistle comes from the other side of the counter and I look up to see Calvin surveying the span of merch beneath the glass case. “I forgot how much of this stuff there was.”
I look up, humiliated all over again for him to see me standing out here unpacking overpriced crap with my comparably untalented hands. “Hey.”
He picks up a key chain and spins it on an index finger. “Do you ever think of taking some of this stuff and selling it on eBay?”
I look around wildly, making sure no one heard him. To even joke about something like that is a huge no-no. “God, no.”
“I was kidding. I mean, I’d only encourage that sort of thing if you set it up under Brian’s name.” He leans his folded arms on the glass case, bending so he’s level with me. He never rushes to speak, this one. Green eyes search mine before he quietly asks, “You okay?”
I busy myself with unpacking the box. “Sure, why?”
“You seem a little tense.”
Ripping at a stubborn piece of packing tape, I growl, “Why would I be tense?”
Calvin reaches out, bracing a hand on each side of the cardboard to steady it. “Because your boss is a twat?”
Embarrassment and gratitude flush through me and I look up at him. “He’s pretty abhorrent.”
“D’you like your job, though?” he asks, and looks away, back down at the contents of the display case.
The reprieve from eye contact allows me to answer honestly: “I like hearing the music. I like taking the photographs, but out here . . . I feel like I’m wasting my brain.”
“You know, that night, what Jeff said . . .”
Jeff’s words come running back to me, and they ache: She sees herself as a supporting character, even in her own life story.
Calvin continues, “I mean, in all the time we’ve talked about who we are, we’ve never talked about what you studied, what you want to do with your life.”
This makes me pause in surprise. “Yes, we have.”
But when he looks back at me, eyes narrowed, I realize he’s right.
“I have an MFA in creative writing.” I bite my lip and pull a strand of hair away from my face while he gazes at me intently. “I want to be a novelist.”
“Wow,” he says, looking slightly taken aback. “I always assumed you wanted to do something with music.”
“Why?”
He looks at me like I’m dense.
“I promise,” I tell him, “I’m not a musician.”
“Well, a novelist is amazing all the same. And an MFA. That’s really impressive, Holland.”
I rarely admit this ambition anymore because it seems to always garner this exact reaction: an odd combination of surprised and impressed. And I can’t tell whether people respond this way because they like the idea that I want to do something difficult and creative, or because nobody looks at me and immediately thinks She’s got stories buried inside her.
When I graduated, I had dreams of writing something fun, commercial, entertaining. Now I’m a twenty-five-year-old glorified concession worker who hasn’t finished a short story or poem or, hell, a sentence in months. If I had a quarter for each time someone told me The only way to write the novel is to just sit down and do it, I’d be able to afford a penthouse overlooking Central Park. Sometimes well-intended advice is so supremely unhelpful.
“It’s only impressive if you do something with it,” I say.
“So do something.”
“Easier said than done.” I let out a little growl. “I want to write, but it’s like my brain is empty when I try to think of a story. Lately I feel like I’m not qualified to do anything, not like you, or Robert.”
Instead of responding to the unmasked vulnerability here, he—thankfully—laughs. “Don’t ask me to write an essay, or solve any maths. I’d embarrass you.” He sobers. “We’re all good at different things, mo stóirín. I think you undervalue your own gifts.” He looks back down at the case but reaches across the glass, twisting his pinkie with mine. “You’re doing all this stuff for me, and Robert—not for yourself. There’s enormous generosity
in that. And it seems to me that you know music better than a lot of people around here”—he tilts his head back, indicating the theater—“so obviously your brain is creatively driven. Trust your muse.”
He’s just poked at the tender spot in my emotions.
“But what if I don’t have one? There’s a part of me that worries I don’t love to write enough to do it all day, my entire life.” I’ve never said those words to anyone, and the clawing honesty of them leaves me feeling untethered and bare. “I think part of what’s keeping me from starting is the fear that I won’t actually love it, and then I’ll be left with a degree I won’t use, and no other prospects.”
The problem is I know he can’t relate to this. He picked up a guitar when he was four, and has played out of sheer love for it ever since. I love to read, but whenever I pick up a novel that blows me away, I think, There’s no way I have something like that inside me. Is Jeff right? Am I unable to create anything because I see myself in a supporting role? Doomed to always be the friend, the daughter, the linchpin in everyone else’s story?
As if he realizes he can’t say anything to this, Calvin points to a glossy collector’s-edition program that shows Luis and Seth standing onstage, grinning at each other after the performance that earned them their first, thunderous round of applause.
“Did you take this photo?”
I did, actually, but I’m surprised this is his question. It’s like it hasn’t occurred to him yet that he’s going to be the new sweetheart of Broadway. That there’s going to be a photo of him and Ramón jubilantly grinning at each other on these commemorative programs, selling for twenty-five dollars a pop.
“Yeah, I did.”
He smiles down at me, proud. “It’s a great shot. You’ve got all these gifts you don’t even realize.”
Rehearsal done, and with the crowd thickening outside, Calvin holds open the door, and we take a right down Forty-Seventh. Robert is handing the reins over to the assistant musical director tonight because he’s been working ridiculous hours getting Calvin and Ramón ready for their start while still running every performance.
I suspect Jeff jumped in and put his foot down, insisting his husband take the next few nights off to breathe.
It’s freezing out. I wrap my scarf a little tighter around my neck, pushing my hands into a pair of gloves. Calvin—who seems to still be running on adrenaline from rehearsal—doesn’t seem to notice the chill at all.
“How was the rest of your afternoon?” he asks, glancing over at me as we wait to cross the street.
A puff of condensation escapes with my laugh. “I plotted Brian’s murder—”
“An excellent idea for a book,” he cuts in.
“Unpacked some merchandise—”
“And may I say the display looks exquisite.”
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. “You’re being awfully complimentary.”
His gloved hand comes up to his chest. “I’m simply impressed with how much you do around the theater, that’s all. It’s like you’re born to be here.”
I tuck my arm through his, huddling against the wind. “One of Robert’s favorite stories to tell is about the day I was born.” I glance up at him and see how riveted his attention is on my face even as we walk. “According to Robert, and Jeff, and Mom, and anyone else who was there that day, Dad brought my five siblings into the room to meet me, and it was like a pile of puppies all over Mom, who looked so exhausted she could barely speak. Robert took me from her arms and told her she could rest. Apparently he said, ‘How about you let me take care of this one?’ ”
Calvin laughs.
I grin up at him. “I’m being serious.”
“I’m laughing because I can absolutely believe this.”
“Whenever I wanted to do anything big,” I say, “like summer camp, volleyball, a weekend trip with a friend and her family—I’d ask my parents, but they’d usually tell me to check with my uncles, too. I spent every day after school at their house in Des Moines. I was there most weekends. I went to work with Robert at night, and did my homework in my favorite seat—row H, seat twenty-three—while he conducted the symphony rehearsal.”
“Did it bother your parents?” he asks. “Mam was so protective; I think this would have killed her.”
He’s not the first person to ask me that. My entire life, friends wondered whether there was some rift between me and my parents, and there never was. I just gravitated to my uncles, and they were family, so it never bothered my mom. “When I came around, Mom had so much less time to baby me. Thomas was thirteen when I was born. By the time I was only three, Dad was coaching Thomas in varsity football and they went to state, so that became the biggest part of our family life. Thomas got a full scholarship to the University of Iowa and Dad was there all the time. Olivia was seven years older, and always a handful for Mom. Davis was Mom’s little cuddler and—”
“You got lost in the shuffle?”
I shake my head. “Maybe a little. I don’t know. I guess it’s easier to see it as an arrangement that worked out for everyone. Mom seemed happy to see me thriving with them.”
“It must have been amazing, growing up in the symphony hall.”
I nod. “I could probably name any classical piece within a few opening notes, but I wonder sometimes if it’s devastating to Robert that I’m not more musical.”
“That is musical, Holland.”
“No, I meant talented.”
I can feel him looking at me a bit longer before tucking my arm more tightly in his.
A car horn wails as it passes, and we move with the crowd like a school of fish down the sidewalk and to the restaurant where we’re meeting Robert, Jeff, and Lulu. I’m mildly anxious to be together with my uncles and Calvin in the same place, only because the four of us haven’t all been together since we dropped the news of our nuptials. I also hope Lulu has worked through whatever’s been bothering her. I love Lulu, but I’m not sure how much more of her drama I can take.
Calvin motions for me to lead the way and we descend the small set of stairs that lead to Sushi of Gari. Restaurants in New York come in every imaginable size, molded to fit the space available. Here, the hum of voices is a monotonous buzz as we’re led through a Tetris game of tables and past a narrow sushi bar to a booth of sorts where Lulu, Robert, and Jeff wait, sipping their sake.
Robert and Jeff both stand, each pressing a kiss to my cheek before we slip into the empty bench waiting for us.
“Sorry we’re late,” I say.
Robert waves us off. “We just got here.”
Lulu raises her sake cup. “I didn’t. I’ve been here for twenty minutes.”
Answering my mental question, Jeff adds, “Lulu has been entertaining us,” and gives me a little wink.
“You don’t say.” I slip out of my coat and toss a warning glance to her across the table.
She grins smugly back at me and holds out her phone. “Behold, I am technology.”
Warily, I take it from her. “Oh my God.” I stare down at the screen. It’s a photograph of a couple on the beach, their toes in the sand and a fire crackling behind them. But it’s no ordinary couple. It’s us, Calvin and me.
Lulu smacks a hand on the table. “I knew that Photoshop class would be useful for more than just digitally enlarging my boobs.”
In my peripheral vision, I see Robert and Jeff exchange a look. At best, they tolerate Lulu. But I’m actually relieved she’s here; she’s providing some social buffer from the elephant in the room—Me, Calvin, the Uncles: all of us here together as family.
“Christ,” Calvin says, looking over my shoulder. His cheek is nearly pressed to mine and I can still feel the chill of the air outside on his skin. “This is pretty good.”
“Your honeymoon,” Lulu says. “To Florida, obviously, since you can’t fly out of the country without getting busted.”
Jeff gently shushes her and I swipe to the next image—a photo of Calvin and me together at an outdoor
concert. He’s standing behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, with his jaw pressed to my temple. In another we’re on a bench in the park looking at each other, not the camera. “You did this? You can barely figure out how to record The Daily Show.”
She ignores the insult. “I was inspired by this guy who inserts himself into Kendall Kardashian’s Instagram pictures.” Robert and Jeff appear to listen to her, but I can see from their glassy stares that with the combined utterance of Instagram and Kardashian, she’s immediately lost them. “I used a bunch of pictures from your wedding day, and then a few of you I had on my phone. And that one you took and sent me of him at the bar.”
I flash my eyes to her in warning, but Calvin doesn’t seem to have heard, he’s still studying the doctored photo.
“I’ll tell you what,” Lulu continues, pointing at the phone, “I’ll never believe anything I see on the cover of a magazine again, but I’m excited as hell for my Christmas card photo with Prince Harry and Ed Sheeran.”
We swipe one more time to the right and then freeze in unison at the pair of naked boobs on the screen before swiping back to the photo of us on the bench.
“Don’t go too far,” she says after quickly swallowing a sip of her rice wine. “There are pictures of my boobs on there, and then Gene sent some back.”
Calvin grabs the phone—presumably before we get an inadvertent eyeful of dick—and returns it to Lulu. “Can you send them to Holland? The Photoshopped ones, not the boobs.” He looks down to me. “We look like a real couple.”
“A hot couple,” Lulu adds, and my pulse does a tap dance across the room. Lulu is immediately forgiven. I know the photos have been helped by filters and a little computer magic, but I look like I actually belong next to him.
Across the table, Robert pours more sake into his cup—already. He’s not usually a big drinker and I catch Jeff’s eye. We both do a curious little eyebrow flicker.
“They’re certainly convincing,” Robert says distractedly, taking his glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Is it weird to see them?” I ask.
Roomies Page 14
