by Dana Bate
And then I awake from my trance. “You’re gross.”
“I can be as gross as you need me to be,” he says, his left eyelid sagging.
“Listen—I have to clean up. Why don’t you join your friends in the other room?”
I try to slip away from him, but he throws both his hands onto the counter, trapping me between them and his pizza box. “Not so fast,” he says. “I don’t think we’re done here.”
He leans in and starts slobbering in my ear and on my neck, covering me with the stale, sour smell of his breath. “Stop,” I say. I push him away with my hands, but that involves me touching his bare chest, which eggs him on. I start slapping him on the arm.
“Mrrreeeoooww …,” he purrs.
“Wes, seriously. Stop.”
He releases his right hand from the counter and grabs my breast. “How can you say stop when you’re wearing a dress like this?”
“What’s going on in here?” Blake ambles into the kitchen from the dining room and moves toward us, clenching his jaw when he sees Wes’s hand on my chest.
Wes whirls around to face him. “Hey, man. We’re just having a little fun.”
Blake’s black-rimmed eyes lock on mine, and he reads the panic in them. “Wes, you’re drunk. Leave Hannah alone.”
Wes puffs up his chest. “What’s your problem, man?”
“No problem. I just want you to stop bothering Hannah.”
“I’m not bothering her.”
“Yes,” I say. “You are.”
Wes twirls around to face me and runs his hand down the front of my dress, plucking my corset strings in an attempt to undo them. “You didn’t seem bothered a minute ago,” he says, leaning in again and nibbling on my earlobe.
Blake rushes up behind Wes and grabs the pizza box with both hands, yanking it upward with a quick thrust. Wes screams in pain. “How many times do I have to tell you? Leave her alone,” Blake says.
Wes backs away from me, writhing as he tries to pull the pizza box back into place. “Just ’cause you’re not fucking her doesn’t mean no one else can,” he says.
Even the white makeup isn’t enough to cover the redness in Blake’s face, and he grabs Wes by the neck, tilting Wes’s chin toward the ceiling. “Get the fuck out of my house,” he says.
Wes coughs violently as Blake releases him and hobbles toward the front hallway, shooting me a hateful look as he passes through the kitchen doorway. “Cock tease,” he says. Then he stumbles through the foyer and leaves.
The party winds down around three in the morning, at which point a few stragglers hang out in the living room, drinking Blake’s newly purchased port and whiskey while they listen to some guy named Jorge (or Jose?) play the guitar as part of his Carlos Santana costume (though, inexplicably, he plays songs by everyone but Santana). I remain in the kitchen, scrubbing sheet pans and rinsing out glasses while I listen to Blake massacre the tune and lyrics of “Hotel California.” Don Henley, wherever you are: I am sorry.
Blake’s tone deafness aside, the party has been a raging success, although I’m still a little shaken by what happened with Wes. I think Blake is, too. He told me I could go home if I wanted to, but I didn’t want to do that, for two reasons. One, I’d still be able to hear everyone thumping around upstairs, so it’s not as if I’d be able to sleep, and two, the last thing a girl wants to do after being groped by a stranger is sit in her claustrophobic, basement apartment, alone. So I stayed.
But, on the plus side, I did hand out my contact information to a few inquiring guests, which could lead to future catering gigs down the line. Everyone raved about my light and crunchy calamari and smoky ribs, and I received more than a few requests for the devils on horseback recipe (My secret? Stuffing the dates with honey-laced mascarpone). I realize many of the compliments and requests will amount to nothing, but all I need is one person, aside from Blake, who is willing to take a chance on me. If that happens, tonight could be the beginning of something big.
As I throw the last of the glasses into the dishwasher and add some detergent, Blake waltzes into the kitchen warbling the tune to “Wish You Were Here.”
“You might need Pink Floyd’s permission if you’re going to do that to their song,” I say as I wipe my hands on a dish towel.
“What?” he says, playing an air guitar. “You’re not enjoying the sweet stylings of Blake Fischer?”
“Is that what you call this?”
He smiles and grabs my hands, placing one on his shoulder and raising the other with his as he holds me by the waist. He leads me in a slow dance around the kitchen, every now and then erupting into song in a key and tone that can only sound good in his head, and probably not even there.
“I’m really sorry about what happened earlier,” he says. “With Wes.”
I try to shrug it off. “No biggie. He was drunk.”
“That may be a reason, but it’s not an excuse.” He twirls me around and pulls me back in. “We have a history.”
“Oh, do you?”
“We were roommates at Georgetown, and after college he got engaged to this girl who was one thousand percent awful. I took him out for a drink before their wedding and told him I thought he was making a big mistake. He got really pissed and cut me out of the wedding party. Then, two years later, they divorced. He and I patched things up, but he’s still pretty bitter about the whole situation. I think he’s angry that I was right and managed never to say ‘I told you so.”
“I see. So … he decides to provoke you by hitting on your tenant? I’ve heard better plans.”
“You’re more than my tenant.”
“Sorry. Your tenant and your caterer.”
Blake stops dancing and looks me in the eye, but soon his eyes drift to the doorway. I swivel my head around and see Nicole leaning against the doorframe, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Blake drops his hands to his sides and steps away from me.
“Sorry to interrupt, Blakey,” she says. “We’re all heading out. Would you mind walking me home? Someone got mugged by my apartment last night, and I’m scared to walk by myself.”
“Sure, no problem. Give me a minute.”
“Have you talked to her yet?” she asks, nodding in my direction.
Talked to me? About what? Why does he need to talk to me?
He shakes his head. “Not yet. I will.”
Nicole gives me a probing look and then struts back into the living room. Blake lets out a long sigh. “I’ll be back in about thirty minutes. Make sure you’re here when I return. Okay? Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
“Good,” he says. “Because when I get back, we need to talk.”
CHAPTER
thirty-two
We need to talk.
What does that mean? I’ll tell you what it means: Hannah Sugarman, you are in deep doo-doo.
He must know about the supper club. I saw Nicole and Blake talking all night. I’m sure Geeta came up again—Geeta, the supper club, Church Street. At some point, Blake must have put together the pieces—a missing plate, depleted booze, a tenant who knows his kitchen like the back of her hand. And now … Crap. What if he evicts me? No, he wouldn’t do that. What am I saying? Of course he would evict me. After burning all of my cookbooks, most likely.
I pace back and forth in Blake’s living room, contemplating a way to extricate myself from this mess, when I hear my cell phone ringing from the kitchen. If my parents are calling at three-thirty in the morning, I might actually burst into flames.
My phone vibrates against the granite, and when I pick it up to check the caller ID, my heart races. It’s Jacob. Finally.
“Hey, stranger,” he says, sounding unusually cheery. “Long time, no speak.”
My mouth feels as if it’s lined with cotton balls. I grab a half-filled glass of water off the counter and throw back a large gulp. “It’s been a while,” I say, my voice cool and flat.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that. I don’t know if you’ve been follow
ing the news on the Hill, but I’ve basically lived at the office for the past two weeks.”
“Right. The immigration debate.”
“Exactly. Believe me, you are the first person I would have called if I’d had time. I had a great time the other weekend.”
My reserve crumbles. “Me, too.”
“Listen, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m free now, if you had any interest in hanging out.”
I look at my watch. “It’s three-thirty in the morning.”
Jacob snickers. “Yeah, so?”
“Well … I’m at my landlord’s place.” Also, I look like a Tim Burton character on acid.
“Ah, another supper club?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s fine. I can help you clean up. I’m only a few blocks away. I could be there in ten minutes. Cool?”
I nibble on my bottom lip and feel my heart thumping in my chest. I want Jacob to come over. I want that more than anything. But in Blake’s house? When Blake is about to come home and yell at me? No, I can’t have that.
“I … now isn’t a great time,” I say.
“Oh. Okay. That’s a shame.” He pauses. “I thought you’d want to see me.”
“I do—of course I do. It’s just … I might be in a little bit of trouble with my landlord. He ran out for a few minutes, but if you’re here when he gets back … let’s just say it doesn’t bode well for my future.”
“Couldn’t you leave him a note? Meet up with me and talk to him tomorrow instead?”
I could do that. And, given how long I’ve waited to hear from Jacob, I probably should do that. But Blake told me to wait here, and I promised him I would, and I can’t renege on that now. Lying about the supper club is one thing, but breaking a promise on top of that—that’s just bad juju all around.
“I don’t think that’ll work,” I say. “I have to stay here.”
“I see. So you’d rather spend time with your landlord than with me, huh?”
A wave of guilt rushes over me, and for a moment I feel as if I’ve made an unreasonable and foolish decision, one sure to result in my perpetual loneliness. Then I remember Jacob hasn’t called me in two weeks and is calling me at 3:30 A.M. on Halloween for what may or may not be a booty call. I am hardly the most unreasonable person ever to exist.
“Of course I’d rather spend time with you. But I need to be here—alone—when my landlord comes home.”
Jacob sighs. “Okay, fine. I was hoping to spend time with you tonight, but I guess I’ll just go home all by myself.” He sighs again.
“I—wait.” The guilt returns. There must be a way for me to see him tonight. Surely I can make this work. “What if I called you after I finish talking to my landlord? We could meet up then?”
He pauses. “Okay. Sure. Give me a call, and we’ll see if we can work something out.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says.
My shoulders relax. “Great. I’ll talk to you soon, then.”
“Cool.”
I hang up with Jacob and lean back against the counter, letting the cool edge of the granite press into my spine. This night might not end in tragedy after all.
Thirty minutes after I hang up with Jacob, Blake still hasn’t come home. After fifteen minutes, I called his cell phone, but the call went straight to voice mail, and now I call a second time, but it goes straight to voice mail again. I peer out the window, but all I see are rowdy Halloweeners cavorting down Church Street, and none of those Halloweeners are dressed as Sweeney Todd. It doesn’t seem right, making me wait around like this, while an eminently datable hunk of man sits in his apartment, ready and willing to make out with me. But Blake asked me to stay—he said, “Make sure you’re here when I return” because “we need to talk”—so I can’t very well leave. Not after he gave me such a huge break and let me cater his party.
But it’s just so unfair. I haven’t heard from Jacob in weeks, and now that I have, I’m stuck in Blake’s house, gazing through the window and checking my watch every five seconds like a lunatic. I don’t want to be here. I want Blake to come home, and I want wrap up our unpleasant conversation as quickly and painlessly as possible.
Another fifteen minutes pass, and still no sign of Blake. I don’t know what to do. I mean, if I were to add up the pros and cons of waiting around versus leaving, leaving would be the obvious winner. I want to make out with Jacob, I don’t want Blake to evict me, and I don’t want to have any sort of conversation with Blake that might mention The Dupont Circle Supper Club. But lately, what I want and what is right haven’t coexisted in the same sphere, and so I know, deep down, that waiting for Blake is the right thing to do. Even if it results in me being evicted. Even if it means depriving myself of Jacob’s smooth, strong hands and impish smile. Waiting is definitely the right choice.
Fifteen more minutes go by, and Blake is still AWOL. If waiting around is right—if waiting is so obviously the nice thing to do—then why, pray tell, am I still sitting here like an idiot with my thumb up my ass? While Blake is off getting his boots rocked by some floozy in a belly dancer costume, I’m sitting here watching infomercials about knives that can cut through tires. I should be the one getting my boots rocked. Not him. Me.
I grab my phone and send Jacob a text message: “You still up?”
Five minutes pass. He doesn’t respond. I send another text: “Still waiting for landlord. Should be free soon.”
Again, no response. I try again: “Watching lame infomercials. Argh.”
Nothing. I contemplate calling him, but I decide that might be overkill. If he isn’t responding to my texts, he’s probably asleep. Then again, he might not be near his phone, in which case he wouldn’t hear a text message alert. He would probably hear his phone ringing, though. So, really, I should call. Definitely.
I bring up his number and call. After five rings, a groggy Jacob answers the phone, his voice thick and scratchy. “Hello?”
“Hey … it’s me. Hannah.”
He yawns. “Oh. Hey.”
“Listen, my landlord still isn’t back. But … after this much time, I think it’s okay if I leave a note and meet up with you. It’s his fault for taking so long.”
Jacob yawns again. “It’s been an hour. I fell asleep. I don’t think I have the energy to walk all the way to Dupont.”
“You don’t have to walk here. I’ll come to you.”
Jacob hesitates. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Not tonight.”
I sink back into Blake’s cushions. “Oh.”
“Hey, you’re the one who didn’t want me to come over an hour ago …”
“That’s not fair—I wanted you to come over. But, for a few complicated reasons, you couldn’t. That’s all.”
He snickers quietly. “Calm down, calm down. I’m sure we can work something out. Why don’t we meet up next weekend? I’m tied up with work all week, but I could do something Saturday night.”
“Saturday—sure. I can do Saturday.”
We don’t have a supper club scheduled for that night, and the only plans I have for next weekend are taking the GREs Saturday morning (an exam for which I am woefully unprepared due to a complete lack of studying). Seeing Jacob would be the perfect way to celebrate getting the exam over with.
“Cool,” he says. “You down with Bistro du Coin?”
“Definitely. Should I make a reservation?”
“I’ll handle it. Let’s shoot for eight o’clock.”
“Great. It’s a date then.”
“It’s a date.” He yawns into the phone. “Good luck with your landlord. I expect a full update next weekend. I want to know why you broke my heart tonight—it’d better be good.”
I hang up with Jacob and collapse into the pillows on Blake’s couch and replay our conversation a zillion times in my head. He wants to see me again next Saturday—he said I broke his heart. I’m back in the game. When he didn’t call for weeks, I worried maybe I’d pull
ed a Sugarman and said something I shouldn’t have or put him off with my lack of professional direction, but now we’ve set up another date and everything is fine. Fine. Or as close to fine as things can be when your landlord is seconds away from coming home and kicking you out of your apartment.
I roll onto my side and stare at the TV. A chef sporting a white toque and red handkerchief wields a bread knife over his head, threatening to use it on a piece of metal piping. As he thrusts the knife at the table and severs the pipe in half, I wonder what the hell I’m doing here and when, for the love of all things holy, Blake will finally come home.
CHAPTER
thirty-three
The next thing I know, it’s light out, and I’m peeling my face off Blake’s leather couch. Apparently I slept here all night. Delightful.
I lift myself up from the couch and stumble toward the kitchen, tripping over the skirt of my dress. Drunk with sleep, I imagine I see Blake sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping his coffee while he reads the Sunday paper. But I quickly realize it’s not my imagination; Blake really is sitting at the breakfast bar—an exhausted Blake, whose complexion and undereye circles rival Sweeney Todd’s, even though he is no longer wearing makeup. He spots me standing in the doorway and folds up his paper.
“Good morning,” he says, smiling. “Sleep well?”
His expression, both warm and welcoming, does not suggest he is about to yell at me for using his house as a speakeasy. It also gives no indication that he feels bad for royally screwing me over last night. Confusing.
“Not as well as you and your blond friend did, I’m sure.”
“You mean Nicole? The belly dancer?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think either of us slept well at all.”
“I guess that depends on how you define ‘sleep,’ ” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Blake furrows his brow. “What?”
