by Joey Bush
Mel waved her hand. “I know. I know you want to be your own woman. But trust me.” She placed her hand over mine. “There will come a time when you need to lean on someone. You can lean on me for words anytime you need to, of course. I’m always here for a talk. But you’ll need more than that. You know that, don’t you?”
I considered this. I had long been so proud, so haughty. I didn’t want to feel like I was at the mercy of anyone else. And god, I didn’t want Drew to take care of my bills. I shook my head. “I still don’t think he would pay for it. He knows how much it means to me to be on my feet. To be responsible.”
Just then, Mel received a phone call. She picked it up and brought it to her ear, greeting her young husband, the father of her child. “He’s got what—? A fever?” Her eyes darted around the café. “Okay. I’ll be home right away. Do you need me to pick up anything on the way home—“
My eyes narrowed. Her baby was sick. I brought my hand to her shoulder, a comfort, and began helping her gather her things. When she hung up the phone, she was already almost out the door. “It’s no big deal, Molly. He just doesn’t know what he’s doing at home by himself, you know. By the way. Please tell me when the next class is. I can run it; we can run it together. Whatever. The point is, I had a blast today back at the studio with you.”
“Me too.” I brought my face forward and kissed her on the cheek, allowing her to dart back into the world and hail a quick cab. My thoughts went with her, back toward the water.
It was still early, around six-thirty in the evening. I walked back to my apartment, with my hands in my pockets and my mind on everything else. I felt like I was spinning. I walked up my apartment steps, thinking about Drew’s smile. It was making me swoon, a bit. I hadn’t felt this way about a guy ever before in my life. In a way, I wanted us to just be a couple—even if it lasted only a week, only a month. This way, I could have a history with someone special. I would have something to show. I could say boyfriend, and then I could say ex-boyfriend. And all would be right with the world, in a way, because I’d have proof of my life.
I unlocked the door. Boomer trounced from the table and onto the floor at my feet, meowing up at me. I patted his head, feeling the softness of his fur. “Boomy,” I murmured as I reached for his food and poured it into his small dish. I turned back toward the couch and thought about what to do. I couldn’t just sit down. I couldn’t just rest. My brain and my body felt so alive. They wanted to see more, to feel more.
Suddenly my phone rang in my pocket. I picked it up swiftly, noticing that it was a call from Drew. My throat grew dry. I hadn’t heard his voice in so many days. I swallowed, trying to practice what I would say, what he would say. I needed this to work suddenly. I needed to woo him, to make him mine.
“Hello,” I answered, trying to make my voice sexy, husky.
“Well, hello, beautiful,” he murmured back. I could hear cars whizzing by him; I could hear horns and beeps. I swallowed, picturing him walking down the street, a million invisible faces around him. “How are you doing?” he asked after a pause.
“You know, I’m doing fine.” I longed to tell him to get in my bed, to get there now. “How’s your new apartment?” I longed for him to live at my apartment complex once more, like he had a mere few weeks before. I wanted him to be in arm’s reach. But he wasn’t.
“It’s beautiful, Mol. You’re going to love it. It needs a lot of work, of course. I need an artistic eye. I’m not much for interior design.”
I allowed my eyes to graze through my shadowed, dusty apartment. I always knew what I wanted to do with it, of course. But I couldn’t afford to renovate. I was a poor renter. I needed money for cat food. “You know. I have a bit of experience with it, if you need a hand,” I spoke up finally. I felt the coffee rollicking in my veins.
“Is that so?”
“If you just give me a chance to see it, sometime.”
Drew thought for a moment. I could hear the whizzing of another car skirt by; this one felt close.
“Where are you?” I laughed into the phone, trying to dispel the seriousness of our current conversation. I felt like we were such adults in that moment. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to laugh with him, naked in a Jacuzzi somewhere. It didn’t have to be life or death.
“I’m close to my apartment, actually. I was thinking—I could pick you up. I could pick you up and take you to my apartment? You can check it out, make a list of all the things I need to do? I’ll need to buy lumber. Or whatever people do.” He laughed into the phone, and the laugh was pleasant. It made me feel warm.
“Yeah. That sounds nice,” I replied. “It’s already eight, you know that?”
I knew that he had things to do, people to see in the morning. I knew the rest of the world didn’t have such an open calendar, like I did. Of course, I knew this was temporary, that I would ultimately have days and days of constant classes, of ballet, tap, jazz, whatever. But not now.
“Who cares?” he asked.
We hung up the phone, with the understanding that he would come get me in just twenty minutes. My heart started doing cartwheels in my chest. I swallowed serenely, trying to calm myself down. This was what I wanted; I wanted to be in a couple. I wanted to just go for it. We had so much in common; I couldn’t ever get him out of my head. Sure: he was a player. And sure: he’d bought my dance studio out from under me. But there wasn’t anything between us anymore. I had a new dance studio. I had new prospects. I had a new formation of a life. And we could build on ours together, one day at a time. I bit my lip and rushed to my room, filtering through my clothes to find the perfect dress. It was a deep purple one: a dress that made my eyes look dark and sultry. I pulled it over my head, noting it pushed my breasts up well, making them look round and full. I grinned to myself in the mirror. Another date with Drew Thompson. I could play along a bit longer; I could try to mold our relationship into something real. I could.
Ten minutes later, I received the call. He was downstairs. I grabbed my purse and tapped Boomer on the head. He meowed at me with big, worried eyes. I’d probably been leaving him alone too often. I sprang down the steps and saw Drew’s white Porsche outside, gleaming in the light of the city. He stood outside of it by the passenger seat, in a long, khaki coat. He looked very professional, if a bit mysterious. I stepped closer, grinning at him in a secretive manner. He reached out and grabbed my shoulder, bringing me in for a kiss. His lips were so warm, so moist against mine. I longed to open myself to him, to allow my body to be his.
But it wasn’t time. He brought his hand back and opened the passenger door, allowing me to enter behind him. I dropped myself into the front seat and waited expectantly as he rushed around to the other side.
“How are you?” I asked as he revved the engine.
He waggled his eyebrows at me enticingly. “No pleasantries, Miss Molly. Let’s get going.” And we sped into the Chicago night. I allowed my head to fall back against the Porsche seat; I allowed my eyes to glaze as each of the lights passed by in a blur. I nearly started laughing at the beautiful sensation of the surrounding world.
The radio was on, and it was playing an old song, Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” Drew placed his hand on the volume knob and turned it up, nodding his head elaborately with the time of the song. He started to sing, forcing a smile to spread across my lips. “TRAMPS LIKE US. BABY WE WERE BORN TO RUN!”
I was caught up in the beauty of the moment; in the beauty of falling in love with this truly incredible man. I started singing as well, allowing the words to course from me easily, sometimes in an almost-scream. (I’d never been a singer, of course.)
“You ever dance to anything like this?” he asked.
I shook my head, giggling. “No. Much more classical, much less Springsteen.”
“It’s too bad. I think Springsteen has such passion behind him. When you see him on stage, it’s almost like he’s dancing, you know. The way his body is. It’s like—“
“It’s lik
e he’s encapsulating the American spirit,” I offered, nodding. My mother had loved Bruce Springsteen; it had been the one thing we’d had in common. I remembered listening to the records with her in the small, lounge room in the years after my father died. I sniffed.
“Yeah. I mean. My dad was totally into Springsteen,” Drew spoke. He turned the car to the left quickly, screeching the tires. “It was a long time before I could listen to it without feeling sad. But now, I listen to it thinking that maybe my dad’s in a better place now, you know?”
I nodded. I thought about that all the time, really. About my father, about where he was. It didn’t make sense that he could just up and leave to another dimension, another place that no one I knew had ever been before. Death was everything, in that sense. It was everything we couldn’t comprehend.
Drew parked on the street in front of this grand brownstone apartment. Somebody rushed to my door and opened it, allowing me to exit evenly. It appeared to be a valet from the building, an earnest man with bright eyes. He nodded at me as I walked up onto the sidewalk. “Good evening.”
I nodded back. Drew walked around to the side and tossed the keys toward the man, who nodded once more. He got into the car and spun it slowly into the underground parking garage as Drew placed his hand on my back and led me up the grand steps to his building.
“So. You bought this entire place?” I asked as we sauntered up.
“Oh, yes. I longed to have a big place, you know. To feel like the king of something. When I lived in New York, I had something like eight hundred square feet. It wasn’t working for me.”
“I imagine not,” I murmured, as I thought about my three-hundred square feet and what I would kill for just an inch more.
CHAPTER THREE
He unlocked the door and led me into a great foyer. The floor was gleaming, even in its age.
“This used to be a small hotel, actually,” he explained. “See the front desk?”
He was right. Next to the entrance was a great front desk. The mailboxes were still behind the desk, as were all the hanging keys. “Wow. Are all the rooms still there?” I asked.
“They sure are. But I’m going to knock them all down.” He placed a finger over his throat and made a cutting motion. He grinned crookedly. “Come on. Let’s head to the kitchen. I need a drink. It was a long day.”
I nodded, trying not to think about the fact that his long day meant destroying and re-building the very place my building had been. “Of course. Let’s grab a drink.”
I followed him beyond the front desk, toward the back kitchen. We passed a grand dining hall, where I imagined—once it was fixed up—Drew would have grand, illustrious parties, like out of a storybook. A large mirror stood on the other side of the room, reflecting us as we rushed by. I watched my purple dress glide behind me like a cape.
The old kitchen had been used for large meals, for a restaurant, Drew explained. He had brought his great wine collection here, and he hoped to make a cellar in the back of the kitchen for all the wine, for easy reaching. I nodded as he parsed through the reds, searching. He finally chose an aged Merlot. He opened it, allowing it to breathe for a moment.
“Do you want to tell me about your day?” he asked. He seemed almost obtrusive.
But I quelled my nervous thoughts. “You know. It’s been a good day.” I slapped my legs lightly. “I had a class today.”
“Oh, you did? Baby ballerinas?”
“Actually, older women. It helps with their pain and their weight. They love it. And I think they love me.”
“Oh, gosh. I’m sure they do,” Drew said. He began to pour the wine into our glasses. I watched as it glugged, like a river spewing from the beautiful bottle. “You know. We should dance together again sometime.”
I brought the wine to my lips, tasting the dry, almost-fruity nature of the liquid. I smiled, allowing it to coat my tongue. “You really think you were that good, dancing with the likes of me?”
“I mean. I know everyone at the benefit thought we were really something special,” Drew said, winking at me. Suddenly, he spun back around and began sauntering out of the kitchen, back toward the foyer. For a moment, I thought surely that he was going to make me leave, that our fun was over.
But instead, he began leading me upstairs. I followed him slowly, looking around me, trying to assess what could be done to make this house what it could be. I placed my hand on my hair, feeling a bit self-conscious. Was I the only person who’d ever seen this crumbling place before? Did I really mean so much to him?
He led me to the second of four floors. The long hallway stretched before us, showing us ten small hotel rooms. He began rushing down the hallway, opening each of the doors. “It’s all mine, can you believe it?” he called back, laughing.
I laughed too, walking behind his rushing form. I peered into each room. They all had such a musty smell. I was certain they hadn’t been used in many months. Even the bedspreads stayed on the bed, each with a strange, flower-filled pattern.
We reached the end of the hallway and then we spun around, gazing down the path.
“What could I do with this floor, do you think?” he asked, scratching at his chin.
I thought for a moment. “Would you want this to be sort of like—the family room? We knock out all the rooms, of course. And we have a fireplace that connects to the one downstairs. We have grand couches, big televisions. For the games, or whatever.” I could see it forming in my head: this grand space with shining wooden floors. “You could have a smaller, separate kitchen up here. One for different occasions. More microwaves,” I murmured, tapping my nose.
He laughed and tried to imagine it, closing his eyes. “The sporting room. The game room. The guy room.” He nodded and smiled at me. “I love it. Let’s do more.”
He rounded the corner to the staircase. We zoomed up to the third floor and discovered that part of the floor had actually been used as a small library. I suggested we expand the library, make it grand. “It could be your study room—the room you drink coffee and read the paper in. The room with the best view, certainly.” I peered out the window at the rushing streets below, one of the books from the library in my hand. I loved this beautiful place; it already felt sort of like a hiding spot from the rest of the world.
“One more floor, Molly.” He led me up the steps to the final floor. “I’ve already knocked out much of the rooms on this floor. I want this to be my bedroom.” He opened the door and revealed the top floor. Great, stretching windows flew over the bedspread, allowing us full view of the stunning Chicago skyline. I caught my breath, sighing at the wonder of it.
I walked toward the lights, placing my hand on the window. “How gorgeous,” I murmured.
Behind me was the bedroom he was building up, bit by bit. The large bed was directly beneath the center of the skylight. It was wrapped in a great, white comforter. It looked like it was perfectly made every morning. I wondered if Drew was human.
Next to the bed was a small little station, with a large couch and a television. Drew tapped a button, and a movie came on the screen. The Godfather. My heart leapt in my chest, and I smiled at him. “I love this movie.”
“Who doesn’t love this movie? Look. They’re in Italy in this scene.”
“Don’t you just love her dress,” I asked, walking toward him. I sat on the couch, my mind lost in thought. I felt so comfortable, so at peace, even with the Chicago world abuzz around me. I grabbed Drew’s hand and led him to sit next to me. I gave him that secretive, pretty smile. He gave in, of course, and collapsed next to me, wrapping his arm around me. We sipped wine in silence, watching Michael Corleone walk through the Italian countryside and fall in love: perhaps the only sweet and truly beautiful part of the whole story.
When the murders started once more, Drew and I brought our eyes back together. We didn’t want to live in that world any more. We wanted to be on the couch, there in Chicago. Together. “So. Do you think you can come over sometimes during the week
and help me transform this place, bit-by-bit?” His voice was in a near whisper.
I nodded. I cuddled closer to him. “Of course. I have so many ideas. Do you think you’ll turn that great room into a sort of ballroom? Think of the grand parties you could have. New Year’s parties. Birthday parties.”
“Right. And weddings, even.” Drew’s eyes gazed at me with such love. My throat felt caught. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
I kick-started myself once more. “Um. Yes. That would be gorgeous.” I sipped my wine. I noticed there was a large hammer off to the side of his bedroom, draped in a few white sheets. “What is that for?”
He laughed. “That, my dear, is what I used to break down these walls. This floor wasn’t always open.” He tapped his nose. “In fact, I’ll probably be using it to knock down some of the walls downstairs.” His eyebrows waggled at me. Every time I looked at him, I felt such sexual energy. “Do you want to help?”
I nodded quickly, leaping up and placing my wine on the table before me. I grabbed the hammer and swept toward the steps with Drew laughing at my heels. We went down to the library floor, where we could see so much of the city. I brought my hammer up high into the air and rammed the great beast into the wall, creating a large hole. I laughed, feeling the energy from the blow course up and down my arms. I blinked toward Drew, beside me, shocked at what I’d just done. “What—“ I called, laughing.
“Again! Again!” Drew shouted.
And so I hit it again, allowing another part of the wall to fall. On the other side, I could see an old alarm clock and slumped-over bed. I crashed again and again, already feeling weary from the weight of the hammer. After a few more swings, I handed the hammer to Drew. He grabbed it, thanking me, and then burst it through the adjoining wall, bringing it crashing down. We were eliminating a room; we were forming an open arena for a beautiful life, a beautiful house. I placed my hand over my mouth, imagining Drew living here for many, many years—perhaps with children, with a wife. I bit my lip, trying not to imagine me in the mix. We weren’t even boyfriend and girlfriend. I was just his fuck buddy. His fuck buddy who was helping him re-decorate the walls of his home.
