Playing House

by Ruby Lang

  He smiled slowly. “You’ve been doing research.”

  Maybe he was flirting with that reply, maybe he wasn’t. It was funny how research sounded affectionate, like teasing, like some sort of subtle caress when it came out of his mouth.

  Then he asked, “Do you ever stop working?”

  So much for enjoying what he had to say. “This isn’t work; this is pleasure.”

  But pleasure seemed awkward the way she choked it out. She covered by standing up. “No job talk,” she declared. She was supposed to be having fun with him so she’d kept reminding herself of that rule since he’d called her back on Tuesday and they’d made plans to meet today.

  She tried to smile and signal that she was relaxed as they walked briskly through Marcus Garvey Park and toward the destination she’d chosen for them. Stroll don’t stride. This is supposed to be fun.

  Oliver seemed unbothered, though. He had his usual chunky, black-framed glasses and was dressed in crisp trousers and a light button-down shirt with his sleeves rolled up. She tried not to stare at his wrists, strong slashes of tendon and muscle even when his hands were relaxed. She remembered one time one of her friends had joked that for a planner he dressed like an architect and that impression remained in the sharp lines and stark blacks and whites of his clothing.

  They didn’t talk much as they walked past the blue-and-yellow play structures, past a teenage boy playing the saxophone on the paved hexagonal stone path. Under the shade, a man was frantically doing crunches while his baby slept in a nearby stroller. Joggers swept by, serious and sweaty. It was early afternoon and the sun was strong that day, enough that, after some hesitation, Fay took off her canary-bright cardigan and revealed her floaty top, her bare arms.

  She saw the flash in Oliver’s eye, but he didn’t say anything. She remembered she’d always found him quiet and reassuring, but he noticed a lot. She had always liked that about him. Maybe back when she was married, she’d thought vaguely to herself that it might be good to work with someone like him. Perhaps she’d even mentioned to her partners that they might try to lure him to their firm. But now she wondered at that version of memory. She had felt very aware of him—maybe she had been interested this whole time.

  At the top of the sweeping stone staircase, they gazed at the fire tower in all its restored cast-iron glory and began to play a game of building-nerd I-Spy where they tried to identify landmarks and streets, points for obscurity and oddball facts. And then eventually they just watched, companionably taking in the view.

  “Spot any fires, chief?” Oliver asked after a while, putting his hands in his pockets.

  “Not even a whiff of smoke.”

  Well, she was feeling warm. Oliver wasn’t standing that close to her. Sometimes, he moved in to point at something and she’d imagine she felt his breath on her cheek. And sometimes she would do the same, and it seemed almost as if he turned, he leaned toward her, his touch a phantom hovering just above her skin. She sighed and he heard it, judging by the tilt of his head, the inquiry in his eyes. By unspoken agreement, they picked their way down the stairs. And paused.

  It really was a beautiful park.

  “I know you probably have a whole itinerary we’re supposed to be marching steadily through or something,” Oliver said, “but it’s really tempting to suggest we just laze in the grass in the shade for a bit.”

  She nodded. Shade. That sounded...cooling. And surely, she wasn’t so uptight that she had to do something every minute. Was that how he saw her? Fay frowned.

  They found a patch of grass and she sat down, drawing her knees up to her chest, and Oliver lay down with his arms behind his head. He gave a blissful grunt and closed his eyes, again, allowing her another chance to look at him, his long, lean form like an exclamation mark in the grass, his shirt drawn tight against his flat belly, the outline of his thighs and knees. What would it be like to have that shape punctuating her moans, her cries?

  He opened one eye. “Is this okay for you?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes, it’s good.”

  She blushed remembering the direction of her thoughts. This was the problem with sitting still. She’d never been able to do it for long. And when she did, she had thoughts. Like the ones she was currently entertaining about Oliver Huang.

  “Ants on you,” she said.

  Oliver sat up slowly. It was nice to watch. He inspected his arms, his pant legs. He gave her a questioning look.

  It was an invitation to touch.

  “Here,” she said. And she brushed a few away gently.

  He was again very still while her fingers were on him.

  “Remember that time a group of us were at a site in New Jersey, and you waded into the grass and got all those insects on you?” he asked her.

  “Oh, you aren’t going to bring that up! That was embarrassing.”

  He laughed. “It wasn’t. And I like that memory. You waded into some tall grass, and when you came out your ankle socks were covered in bugs, little gnats or green flies or something. Someone—I don’t remember who it was so long ago—started shrieking about ticks.”

  “Don’t remind me.” But it was too late.

  “You were so calm! You got behind the car and took off your shoes and some of your clothing and asked for help to be inspected—just in case.”

  “And you stepped up. No one else would. Everyone was too busy freaking out the minute I said the t-word.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you were not gross about it.” She smiled at him.

  “High praise. I try.” He grinned back, his cheeks reddened as their eyes locked for a beat longer than necessary. Flashes of memory came—his hands, confident and cool with long tapered fingers closing around her ankle. Her blood stirred, but he looked away first.

  She cleared her throat, “So is this a story about how great you are or about how great I am?”

  He laughed. “Luckily you were fine. And someone did have a change of clothes. But you insisted that we go to a store and get you new ones.”

  “I remember. Rob. He’d been at the city with me, too, and Linda.”

  “Linda! My classmate. That was her name.”

  “Yes. So, Rob—it was his car—didn’t really want to stop. I think he was worried you hadn’t done a good job and that he’d have to industrial-strength clean his precious Acura.” She wrinkled her nose. “Can you blame him?”

  “Yeah, I can. He was being a jerk. Did he think he should leave you stranded? You were his colleague. It wasn’t like you were spilling an entire colony of ticks onto his upholstery.” He shook his head. “And then he wanted to go to a big box store.”

  “Against all of our community planning principles.” She snickered, and Oliver started laughing, too.

  “You managed it so well! You said, no, let’s stop in this other nice town. And you arranged to get the car vacuumed out!”

  “It wasn’t thorough.”

  “It was something. You bought all new clothing in five minutes. And you got all of us milkshakes and got the diner owner to give you the very unfiltered scoop on how townspeople felt about all the redevelopment going on in the area. And then we were all chummy again.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think Rob ever let me in his car again after that. In fact, I suspect he moved to Virginia just to save his precious upholstery from me.”

  “His loss,” Oliver said, so easily and quickly that it nearly took her breath away. Fay shifted closer. His eyes were bright with life, and she thought very seriously for thirty seconds about leaning in, bringing her mouth to his. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. This time, she looked away first.

  “Besides,” Oliver continued, “it’s not like I’ve always had wonderful experiences with the great outdoors, being a city boy myself.”

  “That’s right. You grew up here.”

  “
Yep, born and raised in Queens, the best, most diverse borough in the world. I say this both as a New Yorker and as an expert on how cities are supposed to work.”

  “Is most of your family still here?”

  “My brother and sister, and my mom. My dad, well, I have no idea where he is. I guess I don’t care.”

  She didn’t probe. Instead, she said, lightly, “Maybe you could show me around there sometime.”

  He watched her. “If you’d like that, I could.”

  Why did she keep blushing? “I would really like that.”

  It was all a little too much. So she sprang up to start moving again, and Oliver followed her, a little more slowly. When they got to the West Side they crossed the street to peer more closely at the old brick buildings and perhaps start their walk through the district. Suddenly, Oliver stopped and pointed to a flier taped next to some door buzzers. They went up for a closer look. “There’s a couple of open houses taking place here.”

  “Are you looking to buy?”

  “No. No, sadly I’m not. But...”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Not quite a house tour, but it was an opportunity to see inside. “Let’s do it.”

  They were buzzed up. The fact sheet, bearing the logo of a prominent uptown brokerage, said there were two apartments showing in the building. They decided to go to the higher floor first. They made their way noisily up a set of creaking stairs, pausing at one landing to stare at the skylight. “Do you think it’s original to the building?”

  “Hard to tell. For sure, it hasn’t been cleaned in a long time.”

  A Black teenage girl was slouched in a chair in the hallway, staring at her phone. “If you and your wife could just sign in,” she mumbled, barely glancing up.

  Again with the assumption that they were a couple—but they were on a date, after all. Maybe. After a pause, Oliver quirked Fay a smile, and wrote “Oliver and Darling Wife,” on the clipboard, along with what seemed like his real email address.

  Not that she had looked it up or anything.

  She had to laugh at the little heart he put over the i in Darling, too. And then she stopped laughing. Because the joke seemed to hit a little too close to home.

  It was a pretty teacup of an apartment, with a bright kitchen with a big window that looked right into the branches of the tree that stood on the street. The walls had been painted yellow, and there was no lack of sunshine in the living room. It felt cheerful and modern and altogether without context; she and Oliver could have been standing anywhere. Most of the period details had been plastered over, sanded, and stripped over the years.

  She and Oliver glanced at each other at the same time, as if they were really in the market for an apartment, and they both shook their heads.

  They stepped into one bedroom—a nursery—where the roof sloped down over the crib. It was tiny. Not much room for anything besides the crib and a chair. But someone had built a clever set of drawers and bookcases around the window.

  They went into the bathroom, which was really too small for both of them to be in at once. And yet, it was exciting standing in there with him so close, with him watching her in the mirror, and her watching him. Why was it easier to look him steadily in the eye when it was through a mirror? To notice how his lips seemed so soft compared to the sharp planes of his face? Her own lips parted a little. She was near enough that she could feel his breath quickening, feel the subtle way they turned their bodies toward each other.

  A door slammed somewhere in the apartment. Voices.

  She ducked her head and left the bathroom. He followed. And they stepped into the last room. The bedroom.

  Most of the room was bed.

  She devoted a part of her mind to wondering how difficult it had been to wrestle the mattress up the narrow flights of stairs. But the darkest corner of it was wondering how hard it would be to tip Oliver down into the bed, how willing he’d be to fall.

  They were still standing close with just a narrow strip at the foot of the bed to walk around in. He leaned a little closer to her. “Fay,” he whispered.

  She half turned, and her hand slid up his chest.

  “Hellooo,” a voice called cheerily from behind them.

  They both turned.

  “Ah, a pair of honeymooners.”

  The Black woman with chunky jewelry and a blue suit was clearly the actual real estate broker. Fay tugged self-consciously at her top and hoped her face wasn’t too shiny.

  But the broker beamed at the two of them and neither of them moved or denied a thing.

  “Isn’t it a great place? A perfect starter apartment with just enough room for a small family.”

  “It’s lovely,” Oliver said. “Lots of light.”

  His hand slid around Fay’s waist. She wanted to turn toward him and sigh.

  The broker smiled at them widely. “Is this the kind of space you had in mind? Is it in your budget?”

  “Oh, well, we wouldn’t mind seeing the downstairs,” Fay found herself saying.

  “Sure. It’s a much bigger layout. More room to grow. Maybe more along the lines of what—” she checked her clipboard “—you, Darling and Oliver, are looking for.”

  As Sharon, the broker, led them downstairs to the ground floor, chattering all the way, Oliver laughed softly into Fay’s neck.

  “Maybe we should stop doing this,” Fay whispered.

  Her lips were practically on his ear. If he took a step down she’d be able to nip him.

  “Doing what?”

  “Pretending that we’re together. It’s like last week. It’s...it’s too easy.”

  Oliver opened his mouth to answer, but Sharon was directing them through the door. And once inside, they both gaped.

  It was huge, dramatic, and beautiful.

  “Not as much light as the third-floor apartment,” Sharon was saying, “but look at those tall windows.”

  They let go of each other but stepped forward together.

  Unlike the upstairs, this apartment was well preserved. Crown molding studded with whorls and curlicues ringed the ceiling, and glossy woodwork framed the windows and the high doorways that separated the living room from the dining room. The walls had been painted a dark forest green, and Sharon had lit lamps that glowed softly in the far corners. Fay shivered as Oliver reached out and traced his finger along one of the frames. “This seems original. When was this built? Late 1800s?”

  The broker cocked her head. “Are you two architects?”

  “Nooo,” they both said.

  “We’re urban planners,” Fay said. “But we’re interested in the history of this area, too.”

  “Oh, that must be how you met. That’s so wonderful having a profession in common. I can tell that with you two that the shop talk doesn’t get in the way of the love talk.”

  Fay very deliberately did not look at Oliver as he answered. “I think that it all ends up being part of the same love language no matter what.”

  The broker beamed at them. “Oh, he’s a darling, uh, Darling. You’re a lucky one.”

  Sharon showed them the old nonworking fireplaces, the pocket doors leading to the study off the kitchen, a set of French doors to a small backyard. She chattered as they went upstairs into the master bedroom. “And here’s a great walk-in closet, with built-in shoe shelves on her side, and a tie rack on his. But these things don’t have to be gendered, do they? No reason why it can’t be for scarves and things.” She gave a little wink. “And this middle platform here is built-in storage for accessories. Oh, oh, there’s the buzzer.”

  Sharon scampered out to answer it and the door swung closed, leaving them once again alone together.

  “Oliver, she thinks we’re in love and that we’re going to have perfect credit scores and a preapproved mortgage and two judges and five doctors writing our reference letters
for the co-op board and that we’re going to close within two months and announce that we’re pregnant as she hands over the keys and that we’ll live happily ever after. You can practically see the hearts in her eyes when she looks at us. Or dollar signs. A little of both. That woman is already planning on knitting something for us.”

  “That’s why she’s a successful professional—she has vision. I think I’m kind of enjoying this story she’s made up about Oliver and Darling.”

  “That we’ve made up entirely.”

  “That has some tiny kernels of truth. Like we’re both urban planners and that’s how we met. That we genuinely love and admire this neighborhood, and good woodwork—”

  “Oliver.”

  “And that we can’t help being fascinated by which details were added and what’s original.” He took another step toward her. “That we gravitate toward each other in a huge room—or a small one.”

  Fay found it very hard to breathe suddenly. It was a closet, but they could have made space between them. And they had chosen not to—they’d chosen to be close.

  “Fay,” he whispered. And then she stepped into him. She rose onto her toes, letting her hands slide over his chest again, she breathed on his neck, admiring the way the cords of his neck tightened, and she nipped her way slowly up his chin, until his lips swooped down on her, his tongue stroking through almost immediately to meet hers, his hands moving up and down her waist.

  Another murmur and he backed her to the platform. With one more movement, he could boost her right up so that they would be aligned—his face on the same level as hers, his chest against hers, his stomach, the hardness of him in the right place. She felt everything surge upward for her to meet him. But then he pulled away from the kiss, his arms sliding slowly away from her back and down to his sides. His face was a study in desire and bafflement.

  “Fay, what are we doing here?”

  Chapter Three

  Fay looked as confused as Oliver felt.

  Neither of them knew what to do with their hands, their arms, their lips that had just been all over each other. For a moment their interesting and sensitive parts had been pressed close, and it was the best feeling in the world—and now they were not, and Oliver didn’t know how to act anymore.