by Dana Bate
Because it couldn’t be. Right?
No more than two hours after I get off the phone, I change my mind. Of course it could be worse than having Jeremy fall in the Tidal Basin. I could scald myself or ruin his beer recipe or spill his prized eighteen-month red ale all over the floor. But worse than any of those possibilities—worse than spilling boiling liquid all over myself—is the prospect of falling for him.
Sure, he makes me laugh and makes me happy, but every time I type his name into Google, I’m given 1,256,789 reasons why I have clearly lost my mind. I don’t want to judge him, but it’s so easy. All of his mistakes, all of his transgressions, they’re at my fingertips, with a few strokes of my keyboard. Some days I wish I could hide from all this history, but I can’t. His past is just so . . . available.
By the time Saturday arrives, I am downright stressed about the evening of beer making and awkwardness that awaits me. But despite the voice in my head telling me to stay away from Jeremy, I can’t bring myself to cancel. I am, quite clearly, my own worst enemy.
Just as I am about to make what is surely a poor wardrobe choice, my mom calls. I’ve tried her a few times over the past week, ever since I spoke to my dad, but she never picked up and, uncharacteristically, never called back—until now, exactly forty minutes before I’m supposed to leave for Jeremy’s apartment.
“I was beginning to worry about you,” I say, holding up a taupe cardigan as I look at myself in my full-length mirror.
“Worry? Oh, please. You have nothing to worry about. Worrying is a mother’s job.”
“Speaking of jobs,” I say, discarding the taupe cardigan and grabbing another top from my closet, “how’s the job search going? Dad mentioned you’d run into a little trouble.”
“Trouble doesn’t begin to describe it.”
“What’s the deal?”
“There is no deal. There isn’t anything. Nada. Zip. The Williams-Sonoma by us doesn’t have any openings. Neither does the one downtown. I’m checking with the one at King of Prussia, but I’m not holding my breath.”
“Have you checked out Sur La Table? Or the home section of one of the department stores?”
“Oh, that’s just what I need. To wait on all of my friends at Macy’s.”
“So what? You guys need the money, right?”
“There are jobs, and then there are jobs.”
“You’re talking to a girl who is working at a farm stand so that she can chase her dream job.”
“That’s different.”
“Oh, yeah? How? Last I checked, Libby wanted you to spend two thousand bucks on chairs. Where’s that money coming from?”
She sighs. “You and your father are all burned up about those chairs. Poor Libby.”
“Poor Libby?” Classic. My mom always takes Libby’s side. When Libby got a bad grade on an exam or paper, my mom would claim the teacher was incompetent, even when I’d had the same teachers and had aced their classes. When Libby’s field hockey tournament was the same weekend as my clarinet recital, my mom chose Libby’s tournament because, she said, Libby needed her support more than I did. And when Libby and her girlfriends ate the chocolate mousse I made as part of a project for French class senior year, my mom said it was my fault for leaving it in our refrigerator without a note. How was Libby to know?
“Mom, Libby lives in fantasyland. And anyway, if you cared so much about getting her the damn chairs, you’d take a job at the gas station if you needed to.” I catch myself. “I take that back. If Libby cares so much about the damn chairs, she should get a job at the gas station.”
She clicks her tongue. “Sydney.”
“What? Maybe it’s time for Libby to grow up and realize she needs to take responsibility for things. Maybe it’s time for you to tell her the Bank of Strauss is closed.”
“When it comes to our children, the Bank of Strauss is never closed.”
“Except if your name is Sydney and you want to pursue a career in food writing.”
“What?”
I let out a sigh. “Never mind. I don’t want to get into this right now. And anyway, I have to run—I’m behind schedule.”
“Behind schedule for what?”
I clear my throat. “A date.”
“A date?” Her tone brightens. “Oh, that’s wonderful. With whom?”
“ Just . . . a guy.”
“Yes, well, I assumed it was a guy. Not that I would have a problem if it weren’t a guy. Your father and I are very progressive when it comes to our views on gay marriage.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom.”
“You know, I always thought your Aunt Ina was gay. Remember her good friend Selma? Anyway, in this day and age—”
“Mom,” I say. “Enough.”
“Sorry, sorry. I don’t want to make you late.” She squeals. “For your date.”
Her tone, so downtrodden only moments ago, now brims with enthusiasm and joy, her spirits seemingly lifted by the prospect of my courtship. The level of her excitement threatens to grate, with its edge of surprise and profusion of eagerness, but I’m willing to indulge her relief—her palpable, unapologetic relief—that someone out there wants to date her awkward daughter. I will allow her this moment of satisfaction because, with every squeal and encouraging remark, with every indication she approves of my activities this evening, she makes it easier for me to tell myself this date isn’t a terrible idea, brimming with problems and potential pitfalls and certain to end in disaster.
CHAPTER 26
The date is a disaster before it even begins. The moment I open my front door, I know the hour I spent grooming myself—beating my hair into submission with a blow-dryer and brush, carefully covering the zits on my chin, and choosing the right outfit—was entirely a waste of my time. The temperature has bounced around all week, throwing the mercury up and down the Fahrenheit scale as spring sputters to a start, and today the air is a tepid fifty-six degrees and heavy with the smell of grass and rain. The sky is one thick sheet of gray stratus clouds, which hover ominously and threaten to blanket the city with rain, and the humidity is approximately 5,000 percent.
This wouldn’t be a problem if my hair weren’t a sponge, sucking every last droplet of moisture out of the air and swelling like a Chia Pet. But my hair is a sponge, and I do look like a Chia Pet, and I wish I hadn’t tried so hard. The fact that I did try hard is, in and of itself, an issue, but it is one I choose not to address because it brings up a host of other issues I’d rather not deal with.
I hop down my front steps, and as I walk along the path toward Swann Street, I spot my crazy downstairs neighbor Simon staring at the front of our house from the sidewalk. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, transfixed by something I cannot identify. For all I know, he is staring at his doorbell, which still bears the duct tape covering he put in place back in February. It looks trashy and terrible, but I decide it’s not my problem. If neither Simon nor our landlord Al can bring himself to fix the stupid bell, then I can live with the hideous block of silver tape. Knowing Al, the doorbell will look that way for months.
If I had any sense, I would ignore Simon and hurry to the L2 bus stop, but, as I have established on many occasions, I do not have any sense, so I sidle up beside him and join him in staring at our building.
“What are we looking at?” I ask.
Simon shoots me a sideways glance. “Why do you care?”
“Because I live here too?” He doesn’t respond. “Is something wrong? Is one of the windows leaking?”
“Why would one of the windows be leaking?”
Sweet Lord. “I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one standing out here staring at the house.”
He narrows his pink-rimmed eyes. “Your hair is very large,” he says. Then he stuffs his hands into his black leather jacket and scurries toward our door.
If this is an omen for the rest of the evening, I might as well give up now.
Thanks to my run-in with Simon, I am ten minutes late in getting
to Jeremy’s place, which adds to my state of disarray. At this point, my hair has swollen with so much moisture that I could hide a squirrel in there and no one would know.
Jeremy lives in Washington’s West End, a small neighborhood just east of Georgetown. For the most part, the area is home to upscale condos, hotels, and restaurants, with the odd embassy thrown in. Unlike the buildings bordering the West End, which bleed history and age from every crack, the construction in Jeremy’s neighborhood is mostly new, with smooth concrete fasciae and swathes of glass. The neighborhood is only a mile and a half southwest of my apartment and yet, with its wide streets, level sidewalks, and multistory buildings, feels like part of a different city.
I hurry through Jeremy’s lobby and ride the elevator to the seventh floor. As soon as I step out, I hear the pulsating rhythm of Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” filling the hallway, emanating from Jeremy’s apartment at the end. His door is ajar, and when I knock, it opens further.
“Hello?”
I poke my head inside and hear loud clanking sounds coming from the kitchen. I slip into his entryway, close the door behind me, and creep toward the kitchen, where I find him standing in front of his sink dressed in a sleeveless Star Wars T-shirt and mesh Adidas shorts.
“Jeremy?”
He whips his head around. “There she is! I was beginning to think you’d had second thoughts.”
My eyes land on his sleeveless shirt, which features an enormous photographic rendering of Harrison Ford as Han Solo, surrounded by a rainbow.
“I am now . . .”
He glances down at his shirt. “You’re not a Star Wars fan?”
“I have no problem with Star Wars,” I say. That is true. What I have a problem with is the lack of sleeves on his shirt and the nonexistent barrier between me and his armpit hair.
“Good,” he says. “Because like I said before: George Lucas was a visionary.” He studies my taupe cardigan and dark jeans. “Your outfit is going to be a problem.”
“My outfit is a problem? Mine?”
“It’s my fault,” he says. “I forgot to tell you. Making beer . . . My apartment gets a little warm.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know. . . . There’s a lot of steam. . . .”
“If this is your plan to get me to take off my clothes, allow me to disabuse you of that notion right now.”
“Why do you always assume I have some sinister plan? I’m not that crafty. Trust me.”
“You say this, and yet history suggests otherwise.”
He flushes and rumples his brow. “How do you mean?”
“Never mind,” I say. Now isn’t the time to discuss his past. “So where do we begin?”
Jeremy clears a spot on one of the barstools for me to lay my purse and finishes arranging all of his brewing equipment on the counter. Once everything is in the proper place, he rubs his hands together.
“So, I figured for your introduction to homebrewing, I’d start with something interesting but basic. I remember you ordered a porter on our first date, so I thought we could start there.”
“You remember what beer I ordered?”
His cheeks redden, and he scratches at his temple. “I’m not a stalker or anything. I just . . . I like you. I pay attention to the things you seem to enjoy.”
I think back to the cannoli and hoagies he made for our picnic and the obvious thought he has put into all of our activities. “Thanks. That’s very thoughtful.” My eyes drift to his sleeveless shirt. “Now might be a good time to mention I prefer men’s shirts to have sleeves.”
He groans. “It’s not like I wear this to work.”
“But you would if you could. Am I right?”
“No.” He glances down at the image of Han Solo. “Maybe. I don’t know. The point is, this is my brewing shirt. It’s part of the magic. You’ll see.”
He pulls out a large mesh bag and begins filling it with three different types of grains that he weighs on a digital scale. He twirls the bag around to seal the top and tosses it into a large metal pot, which he has filled with several gallons of water, and begins heating everything up on the stove. It is clear from his quick, precise movements that he has done this many times, to the point where each step is almost instinctual, requiring little thought or explanation.
The boiling grain fills the kitchen with a sweet, toasty aroma, and once the pot reaches 170 degrees, I help Jeremy remove the soggy bag of grain. He cranks up the heat and instructs me to pour in the malt extract, holding his hand over mine to steady my grip as I tip the pitcher over the pot. His hands are warm and sticky from all of the heat in the kitchen, and as the steam rises toward the ceiling, beads of sweat develop along my hairline, helped along by my increasing anxiety over the proximity of Jeremy’s body—and, by default, his armpit hair. As I put the pitcher back on the counter, I feel his other hand graze my hip.
“What’s next?” I ask, unsure whether to lean into his touch or pull away.
Jeremy steps back and nods toward the big metal pot. “We add some hops when that comes to a full boil, and then we let it boil for an hour.”
“An hour?”
He nods. “An hour. And while that’s going on, you’re going to help me make dinner.”
My stomach churns as memories of Zach and me cooking together come rushing back. I’ve barely cooked anything in the nearly five years since we broke up, and I certainly haven’t cooked with another potential suitor.
“Now I have to cook my own dinner?” I say, trying to sound relaxed even though I hate this idea. I don’t think I’m ready for this. Sleeping together, fine. But cooking together? That’s different. That’s intimate. That means something. To me, at least.
“I already did the heavy lifting,” he says. “You just have to help me put it all together.”
He reaches into his refrigerator and pulls out a bright red, lidded pot, which he puts on the burner diagonal from the simmering beer. He peers beneath the lid, takes a whiff, and then replaces the lid and cranks the heat to medium.
“Are you sure?” I say. “I don’t want to ruin whatever you have planned.”
“That would be impossible. I’ve already braised the pork and pickled the peppers. I’ll fry the eggs, so all you need to do is cook the rice. Unless you don’t know how to cook rice.”
I purse my lips, suddenly defensive. “I know how to cook rice.”
“Then we’ll be fine.”
But given the uneasy feeling in my stomach, I’m not sure we will.
One thing is definitely not fine, and that thing is my outfit.
Between the gallons of rapidly boiling beer and the bubbling pork—not to mention the simmering rice—Jeremy’s apartment is a whopping eighty-six degrees, and I am basically wearing a sweater. I never thought I’d envy a sleeveless shirt with a photo of Harrison Ford circa 1977, but right now I would murder for that sartorial eyesore.
By the time we add the second bag of hops to the beer boil, I am having trouble breathing. The cream camisole beneath my cardigan is sheer and skimpy, but I have reached a point where self-consciousness is trumped by potentially life-threatening discomfort. This cardigan cannot remain on my body for another second.
Jeremy’s eyes flit in my direction as I throw my cardigan over the back of one of his barstools. “Don’t get any ideas,” I say. “I just need to cool down.”
He holds his hands up defensively. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking you should borrow a pair of shorts. That’s what I’m thinking.”
I lift the lid off the rice and fluff it with a fork. “I’m guessing we don’t wear the same size.”
“You could borrow a pair of boxers. Roll them up around the waist?”
I put the lid back on the rice and place the pan on the counter. “You want me to wear your underwear?”
“Why do you have to make it sound so gross? They’re box
ers—clean, unworn boxers. I have a new pack I haven’t even worn yet.”
I place my hands on my hips and tap my toe on the floor. As much as I want to say no, as much as I do not want to get any more undressed than I already am, I must admit that boxers—airy, cottony boxers—sound glorious right about now.
“Fine,” I say. “Where are they?”
Jeremy leads me back into his bedroom, where the white duvet is pulled up over the bed, each pillow properly arranged against the dark walnut headboard. The top of his dresser is bare, apart from a small black leather valet case containing a watch, some loose change, and a set of keys. There are no clothes on the floor, no stacks of old bills or piles of old batteries, no expired credit cards or licenses. Drew could learn a thing or two from this guy.
“Try a pair of these and see if they work,” he says, handing me a three-pack of cotton boxers.
“Thanks.”
He glances over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “I’m going to head back out there and finish cooking dinner. By the time you come out, everything should be ready.”
He heads for the door, but I stop him before he crosses the threshold. “Hey, Jeremy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“For the boxers?”
“For everything.” I fidget with the packet in my hands. “I haven’t cooked like this in a long time. The beer, the dinner. It’s just—it’s nice.”
His cheeks flush, and his smile seems to take up the whole room, and I can’t help but believe this is the real Jeremy Brauer—this man right here, who made me dinner and taught me to make beer and is letting me borrow a pair of his boxers. The man I read about on Wikipedia, well, I don’t know who he is, but he isn’t the Jeremy I know.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “It’s my pleasure. Truly.”
He smiles again, his hand resting delicately on the door handle, and then he turns around, closes the door behind him, and heads back into the kitchen.
