Mr. Nice Guy

by Jennifer Miller

  And they did. Carmen had fallen into a deep slumber moments after her last orgasm, leaving Lucas awake beside her, listening to the rain as it clattered against car hoods and air-conditioning units. He was counting the kinds of sex they’d had over the last six months. It was a veritable rainbow: vigorous, sensual, angry, and awkward sex; passionate, gentle, humorous, and competitive sex; abortive, drunken, embarrassing sex; hurried, laconic, turbulent sex. The list left him no closer to sleep. Presently, he was stalled on the kind of sex they’d had that very evening. He turned over and looked at Carmen, half-buried in the pillows, her dark hair fanned nest-like around her head. Something about tonight was different: newly intimate, especially intense. But to use either of these words—“intimate,” “intense”—felt romance-novel generic. They were generalizations. And when you really knew someone, your physical connection was specific and precise. It was, Lucas realized, the difference between having sex and making love. Sex, on the one hand, was something you did. You could do it poorly or well. You could practice and improve. But it was, essentially, an activity, like yoga or checkers. Love, on the other hand, was something you made. Something you fashioned with great care from the raw materials: your body and someone else’s, your heart and theirs. Tonight, corny as it sounded, he’d made love to her.

  And he’d made love to her, because he loved her.

  I love her.

  Lucas froze as though the slightest movement would cause those three words to skitter off. Where had they come from? Were they real or a flourish of the game he was playing?

  I love her.

  No, the words—the feeling behind the words—had been gathering for weeks now. Maybe all the way back to Christmas, when they first realized that they actually liked each other. And this like, as he knew sometimes happened in arranged marriages, had turned to love. His body vibrated; his heart thumped; his lungs constricted; his eyes burned. This is real, he concluded.

  This is a mistake, the little voice said.

  Shut up, Lucas said back. He was so excited, he couldn’t think straight. This would upend everything—the column, his career at the magazine, his life in New York. But he didn’t care.

  Sofia, the voice insisted. Don’t forget Sofia.

  This thought did, in fact, bring him down to earth. His mistake last time was to declare his feelings based on a hunch. He had to treat his relationship with Carmen like a magazine story, and you didn’t publish a magazine story based on your gut. You reported it out, checked the facts. He needed something to confirm his gut now. In most relationships, that was impossible. If love was blind, so was the route to admitting it. But not this relationship. Now, finally, Lucas knew the advantage of sleeping with someone who was contractually obligated to record her feedback in a notebook.

  Slowly, so as not to rouse Carmen, Lucas climbed out of bed. The pounding rain absorbed the sound of his footsteps across the floor and the creak of her desk drawer. He lifted her notebook out and carried it to a window. Here was Carmen’s catalog of their sexual history. The scribblings from their many encounters, notes for the column. It felt like an invasion of her privacy, and he hesitated—but rationalized that, hey, this was all written for public consumption anyway. He wasn’t prying into her thoughts so much as getting an advance peek at what everyone would soon know. He flipped to the end. The last entry was marked two days prior, the same night he’d kissed her on the steps.

  Well fuck. I did not expect to fall for L. I did not want to fall for L. I fell for L. I wish

  Fall for L. Fell for L. Lucas returned the notebook to her desk. He was smiling so hard, his face hurt. Proof! Her feelings as naked on the page as her sleeping body on the bed. And yet that tantalizing fragment! I wish—what?

  I wish I knew what Lucas wanted and whether he wanted me?

  I wish I wasn’t so afraid of my own wanting?

  I wish I could say yes to wanting him?

  Lucas could plainly see the upward sweep of a letter, half-formed, beside the word “wish.” She’d been interrupted mid-sentence. But any of these wishes would suffice. The question now was how to respond. Of course, he would pen a response. His column would convey without a shadow of a doubt that she was wanted. That he wanted her. He would do for Carmen what Jays had not: tell the world how much she was desired. But Lucas couldn’t imagine her reading his declaration on a computer screen. What he needed was a grand gesture. A statement bold enough to demonstrate the force of his feeling.

  CHAPTER 41

  Carmen woke up late the next morning to find a cappuccino and croissants on the table. Beside them was a note: “Meet me outside MOMA at 3 p.s. How’s this for boyfriend material?” The overture was lovely, and yet … She was leaving in two weeks, and all of a sudden this relationship had become incredibly complicated. As she showered and dressed, she tried to sort things out. First: She had powerful feelings for Lucas. Second: Those feelings were obviously mutual. Third: The timing was fundamentally, almost existentially wrong.

  One more date before they wrote their “better off as fuck buddies” columns. That would be a good opening for a heart-to-heart with Lucas, a way to settle things gracefully before she left.

  * * *

  She’d just gotten dressed when the door buzzed. She peered out the window, checking for paparazzi. The street was empty. “Lucas?” she asked into the intercom, assuming he’d forgotten something.

  “Not quite,” said the voice.

  “Jay?”

  “Can I come up?”

  She buzzed him in.

  He appeared at the door, and immediately Carmen noticed the uncanny smoothness of his skin. It was makeup, which he resorted to on the rare occasions he’d slept poorly. Something was very wrong; Carmen had never known anyone to sleep more soundly than Jays.

  “The Boar is closing,” he said, entering and sinking into her couch.

  “Oh, Jay,” she said. “I’m sorry.” And she was. She’d been there from the restaurant’s beginnings, had traveled the city with him scouting locations. He’d wanted that spot in the Village so badly, and his joy at securing it had been so pure. It reminded Carmen that Jays had been a boy once. He rarely spoke of his childhood—he was embarrassed by it—but she liked to imagine him running beneath the endless Kansas sky, massive wind turbines churning the air. They were the closest thing to skyscrapers in his world. Jays’ young Kansan life was a constant search for the real towers, a yellow brick road to take him to New York, his Emerald City. “What happened?” she asked now. She sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

  “The restaurant industry is a bitch,” he said. “I thought The College would have been taking applicants by now, and that tuition could have helped prop up the Boar. But instead, investors have dragged their heels and The College is behind schedule.”

  Carmen nodded sympathetically but said nothing. She’d never thought The College was a good idea, at least not as Jays envisioned it. In his eagerness to bilk superwealthy millennials of their inheritances, he’d taken on too much debt and made unwise investments. It was all very un-Jays, actually: His ambitions usually led him to make crystal-clear decisions, but somehow in coming so close to building his dream he’d let ambition get the better of him. And the first casualty was the restaurant, one of the few things he truly cared about.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. She didn’t know what else to say and wondered what he was doing here.

  “How’s the little dating experiment shaping up?” Jays glanced around the apartment, as though searching for some sign of Lucas. “Are you sick of him yet?”

  The Editor sounded uncharacteristically defensive. Was he jealous? It seemed impossible. “Why are you here, Jay?”

  “I wanted to see you, Carmen. We need to have a heart-to-heart.” He shifted closer to her on the couch. “You know I’m not good with apologies. But I admit it. I fucked up. I took advantage of you, of your feelings.” Jays was moving closer. She could now see how wan he looked. Tired and sad. “I’m not used t
o opening up. So I pushed you away. It was the biggest mistake of my life, Carmen.”

  Carmen felt off-balance; like a reflex, she wanted to comfort him. But then she remembered that she’d steeled herself for a moment like this. Many months after their breakup, she’d paused to consider what might happen if Jays came back to her. If he does, she told herself, it’s not because he wants you. It wasn’t about you before, and it won’t be about you in the future. And now here Jays was, proving her right. He’d lost many things and wanted to even out his property. Lose the Boar, regain Carmen. One for one.

  “Jay,” she said, “I’m sorry you’re losing the restaurant. I am. But this apology is too late.” And completely insincere.

  Jays leaned toward her. He took her hand. “I am a flawed man. I can’t continue like this, alone, with everything falling apart. Please, Carmen.”

  She expected him to try to kiss her, pull her hungrily onto the cushions. But Jays did not move. He held her gaze, his eyes supplicating. She’d never seen him look this way before. Could this be real? Jays extended his arm and brushed his finger slowly along the ridge of her shoulder. Carmen shivered. Then she caught herself again and stood up.

  “You’ve been manipulating me for years,” she said, as if it were a cold fact delivered by a law professor. “You did it emotionally, and you did it professionally. You promised to get me out of the sex-writer ghetto that you put me in, but instead you pushed me into ‘Screw the Critics,’ knowing I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” Jays opened his mouth to protest but Carmen just shook her head. “You think that because I said the idea for the column first, that absolves you? It doesn’t, Jay. You came into that lunch knowing exactly what was going to happen. Knowing that I’d let you degrade me just a little more. But I’m done with all that. You see things slipping away, and you’re grasping for me. But the truth is, Jay, you’re losing me, too.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m leaving,” Carmen said. “I’m moving to Los Angeles to work on a show. I’m done with this magazine and with you. I quit.”

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  “Right now,” Carmen said. “Two weeks’ notice is right now.”

  Seconds passed, and Carmen watched the Editor’s face for some sign of emotion. There was none. Finally, Jays stood up and walked toward the door.

  “Go find someone else to prostitute out for your magazine,” she said, just to get a rise out of him. His quietness was disquieting. But he gave her nothing; as he left the apartment, he didn’t even look back.

  * * *

  That afternoon, at the appointed time, Carmen arrived at MOMA. It was a blustery day and the museum was crowded with tourists in flight from the cold. The lobby was aswirl with movement: museumgoers laden with winter coats and scarves, sucking down the dregs of their Starbucks, plotting the most expedient routes to Dalí, de Kooning, and Kahlo. Lucas was already there, clutching a bouquet of yellow tulips. Carmen maneuvered her way to him. He kissed her on the cheek and handed her the flowers.

  “You’re really doing your due diligence,” she said. Yellow tulips were her favorite. He must have asked Mira.

  “Shall we?” He presented his arm and they walked in silence toward the elevators. Lucas smelled very good and looked freshly groomed.

  “Sorry I’m not looking fancy,” Carmen said, glancing down at her jeans and PUMAs. It was just a trip to the museum after all.

  “You’re beautiful,” Lucas said. And then the elevator doors were opening on the fifth floor—van Gogh’s floor. Lucas stepped out.

  Carmen hesitated and looked at him across the threshold. Another detail obviously offered up by her grandmother. It was no big deal. So why the sudden nerves?

  “It’s sweet of you to bring me here,” she said as they walked through the gallery. “I’m guessing Mira told you the story—about how I went to Amsterdam to see a painting that was back in Manhattan. I know it makes me look a little foolish.”

  They were approaching Starry Night, though Carmen could barely see it through the crowd, pressed shoulder to shoulder. But then the crowd gave way, almost like it had been waiting. Soon she and Lucas stood before a velvet rope. And there was Charles, the security guard, unhooking the clasp and letting them through. A small space had been cordoned off directly in front of the painting.

  “What—?” Carmen turned to Lucas. But she stopped abruptly, because there, just to the side, was Mira, dressed in her flowing finery, her gray hair coiffed and studded with tortoiseshell combs. Beside her stood a stocky, muscled young man. Carmen knew him from somewhere. He nodded at Lucas. It was Tyler, Carmen realized all of a sudden. He’d been an intern at Empire maybe five years ago, back when Carmen still came to the office on a regular basis. Tyler was a trip. She frequently ran into him at parties, where he worked the room, wooing women twice his age and height. Then, at summer’s end, Tyler’s internship was over and Carmen forgot all about him. It had never occurred to her that Tyler the intern and Lucas’s roommate—a Noser reporter named Tyler—would be one and the same.

  Lucas cleared his throat. Carmen saw Tyler turn his phone toward them.

  “Lucas,” Carmen whispered. “What’s going on? What is this?” Her heart was starting to pound. There were so many sets of eyes on them now, so many lenses pointed in their direction. She was suddenly hyperconscious of the bouquet, dangling upside down from her hand, stems in the air.

  “‘Dear Carmen,’” Lucas said, reading from his phone. He took her free hand.

  She looked at him with terror. Surely he wasn’t about to propose? But why bring her here? Why invite Mira?

  “‘Months ago, you and I became involved in an experiment. It was an exploration of physical intimacy that had never before been attempted—at least not on such a public stage. We had nothing in common. We had very little chemistry. Actually, we kind of hated each other.’” Lucas grinned sheepishly. Carmen returned a weak smile. “‘But over time, things changed. As we explored each other’s desires and expectations, we built a different kind of connection. We became friends, then partners, then confidants. We became truly vulnerable to each other in ways I’ve never been with any other person. I did not expect to fall for you, Carmen. I did not want to fall for you. But I fell for you.’”

  Carmen’s heart beat hard against her sternum. She recognized her own words, of course. And though she had not intended him to find them—had not wanted him to find them—she could not blame him. Because they were heartfelt and true. They just weren’t the only truth, the only thing in her heart.

  Lucas continued. “‘I fell for you,’” he repeated. “‘It’s not just about falling in love, though. It’s about how much I want you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. As long as we are together, you will know how much you are loved, appreciated, and desired. As long as we’re together, you will never feel unwanted. Sincerely, Nice Guy.’” Lucas looked up at her. “I will be filing this for my next column, but I wanted to read it to you first.”

  Carmen closed her eyes as the tears rose behind them. She knew exactly what Lucas was doing. He’d designed this moment to be a foil to Jays and everything the Editor stood for—or, more precisely, didn’t. No one had ever thought so carefully about what would touch her as this expression of love. And yet, as much as she loved Lucas and did not want to hurt him, she could see the future as he could not: everything falling apart and both of their careers ruined in the process. In the present, though, she needed to get him out of the spotlight and away from these cell phones. “Let’s go somewhere and talk,” she whispered. “I want to be alone with you.”

  “Don’t be shy,” he whispered back, but she saw that she’d planted the seeds of doubt. Because she hadn’t pulled him into a passionate embrace. Because she hadn’t yet said, I want you, too.

  “You’re amazing,” she whispered. “This is all incredible. But not here. Please.”

  Lucas pulled back. “Why not here?” he asked in his
normal voice.

  Carmen took a deep breath. “Please, Lucas.” She tugged gently at his hand, encouraging him to walk. He didn’t move. Now what? She couldn’t very well just leave him standing here. And she couldn’t fake the response he wanted.

  “I read what you wrote,” Lucas said, a slight amount of pleading in his voice. “Your next column was going to be about your love for me. About falling for me. It’s mutual, Carmen. Don’t you see? It’s not just some game we’re playing for a bunch of magazine readers. It’s us.”

  Carmen shook her head. “I do love you, Lucas. I feel more strongly for you than I have for anyone. But I—please, can we talk about this somewhere else?”

  “No. Here.” His bottom lip was quivering. It made her want to cry.

  “I am leaving in two weeks to start a new life, and I need to be free. Completely.”

  “So what, you’re just going to pretend that I don’t exist?”

  “Of course not. But we’re going to be three thousand miles apart. A relationship doesn’t make sense.”

  “We can make it work. I’ll move out to California. This is once in a lifetime, Carmen. This is right.”

  “I’m going to hate leaving you, OK? It’s going to be hard. Very hard. But it’s not—” She’d gone too far.

  “It’s not what?”

  She pleaded with him, silently, but he only shook his head. “It’s not once in a lifetime. You’re twenty-five. You’ve been in one long-term relationship. Who knows what else is out there for you? Settling down with you right now would be a terrible decision for both of us.”

  “All of a sudden I’m too young for you? You’ve been fucking me for months, confiding in me for months, and suddenly I’m a child?”