4. Bryce
FOUR
brYCE
Well, I definitely got fucked. Just not in the way I hoped.
Instead of a quick encounter with a sexy stranger, I ended up with a stranger taking possession of my apartment.
A tall stranger. Well over six feet. I’m a respectably average five feet eleven inches tall, and he dwarfed me.
He had shoulders you could anchor a cruise ship to. And he’s sleeping on my sofa.
He thinks the apartment is his. It is not.
Anthony’s name may be on the lease, but I’ve lived here for almost two years.
I’m the one who picked out the rug in the living room, the one with the bold geometric pattern I thought would tie the space together.
I’ve spent hours choosing the right throw pillows, rearranging the furniture to make the most of the small space.
I feng-shuied my ass off, creating a home in a way Anthony never bothered to. It’s my apartment.
Bobo, happier than a twink in a bathhouse to be cuddling with me on the bed, yawns and lays his head on my forearm.
“We’re not going anywhere.” I rub his ears, running my fingers through his hair. “This is our home. He can’t make us leave. ”
Bobo licks my arm, his giant tongue tickling my skin, and then he lies back down.
“I’m sorry, boy.”
It’s still dark out, so it must be early.
As gently as possible, I move his head off me, sit up, and grab my phone—5:12 a.m. Not only have I been dumped via letter, but the stranger who’s moved into my apartment has totally fucked with my sleep cycle.
Maybe if he poisons my Corn Flakes, I’ll hit the shitty news trifecta.
Well, if I’m up, I might as well get the day started. Bobo and I can take a nice long walk before my audition later this morning for this new show, The Sound of Muscles . As if a nun twirling on a hill wasn’t gay enough . It’s for the chorus, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Bobo shakes his head, clearly wanting to get up.
“You hungry?” My stomach growls, and he tilts his head, staring at my midsection. “Yeah, me too.”
I look at the bedroom door. It’s rarely closed, as there’s no need.
We’re either together in here or moving around.
But there’s no “we” anymore—at least not Anthony and me.
Bobo hops down, saunters over, and stares at the barrier between us and Mr. Stealing My Peace.
It makes the small space even more confined.
“Okay, we’ll have to be quiet, buddy. We have a … guest.”
Before my hand touches the doorknob, a loud noise blasts from outside, making Bobo and me jump. Strings. Horns. It sounds like a marching band decided to move into my tiny living room with the stranger who most definitely isn’t going to split me in half.
I open the door, and roaring classical music slaps me in the face.
Mr. Carnival Cruise Shoulders stands at the table— my table that I picked out and schlepped up six flights of stairs—fully dressed, eyes closed like the world’s loudest orchestra isn’t attempting to wake the entire building before the sun rises.
On the table sits a small portable speaker responsible for the racket, and I’m amazed by the volume it produces despite its size.
“Excuse me,” I shout over the cacophony, but he doesn’t flinch. I take a step closer. “Emerson?”
Nothing.
Sensing my frustration and possibly wanting the blaring music to stop, Bobo trots up and gives his khakis a little nudge, and finally, he opens his eyes.
“Do you need something?” Emerson shouts, attempting to have a conversation over the noise.
“Do I need something?”
He reaches up to his ear, touches a small plastic piece that sits behind it and takes an audible breath.
“What is that?” I nod toward the speaker.
He says something, but I can’t make him out over the blaring orchestra.
“Can you turn it off?” I cover my ears with my hands. “Or at least down?” I’m all but screaming to compete with the classical nonsense.
“Excuse me?”
“Music.” I point to the speaker. “Off.” I gesture across my neck. “Please.” I flash him my best smile.
His mouth opens wide like he finally gets it. He quickly hits pause on his phone, and just like that, the music cuts off, leaving the room blissfully silent.
“Why are you blasting this … stuff before sunrise?”
“This stuff is Die Walküre by Wagner. It’s a brilliant rumination on love and loss.”
“Personally, I prefer something with a little more … pizzazz.” I give my best jazz hands. “The divas are where my heart lies. Specifically, one Ms. Carly Rae Jepsen.”
“Carly Rae from the Jetsons?” He fusses behind his ear again. “ I vaguely remember Judy and Rosie the Robot. Which one was Carly Rae?”
My chin dips, almost hitting my sternum.
“You can’t be serious. ‘Call Me Maybe’?”
“Call you? Why would I do that? You’re literally in front of me.”
I shake my head in disbelief. This guy can’t be serious. No one is this oblivious. But as I search his face, his eyebrows squishing together, I realize he genuinely knows neither Ms. Carly Rae or her signature bop.
“Oh, Emerson,” I say, touching his forearm. It’s dusted with light brown hair that compliments his short, well-kept cut.
“What?” He pulls back, shaking his broad shoulders slightly. “Unfortunately, the musicology department of the University of New York doesn’t have a concentration in disposable Top 40.”
“I’m going to blame that bitchy comment on your jetlag, but don’t make me have to wash your mouth out with Bath and Body Works soap.
” I have to roll my eyes at how dismissive people can be toward pop music.
Writing a catchy, sticky four-minute song is tougher than it looks.
I’ve suffered through enough bad musicals to know this firsthand.
I glance at a University of New York folder next to his phone. “So you’re a teacher?”
“Professor.”
“Hot. I mean, cool.” Why is it that, for me, the word professor conjures the image of someone getting bent over a mahogany desk? “I thought you were a farmer. You said you grew corn?—”
“And soybeans. In between tending to the land, I had time to go to school.” He arches an eyebrow at me. “I’m here to guest lecture for the semester. Beats and Requiems: A History of Western Music.”
“Wow,” I utter with absolutely zero enthusiasm.
He checks his watch, the hands ticking away. It’s silver and well-crafted, with no digital display in sight. “I have no idea how long the train will take. I need to eat and get my butt out the door.”
He turns toward the kitchen, which unfortunately accentuates the butt he’s trying to get out the door.
He really fills those pants out, which, contrary to what I told him, I absolutely admired last night.
Maybe they were a different pair? Crème vs.
taupe? It’s not that spectacular. And I have no time for plump asses in tight khakis.
I lift my chin and puff my chest out.
“Well, you woke me up. And Bobo. We were trying to sleep.”
“He looks pretty awake to me.” Emerson nods at Bobo, who’s in the kitchen, next to his empty bowl, staring at this new human and me.
Emerson picks the speaker up and plops it into a worn leather bag on one of the two chairs flanking the table.
“Well, you woke him.” I open the bottom cupboard and pour dry kibble into his bowl. “He likes to eat as soon as he wakes up. And then later. And usually a few more times. He’s kind of like a hobbit. Right, Bobo Baggins?”
“Actually, it’s Bilbo.” Emerson walks to the fridge, opens it, and scans the contents. “Bilbo Baggins.”
“I know it’s Bilbo. But calling him Bobo Baggins is cute. Right, Bobo?”
Instead of rushing to my defense, he’s buried his face in his bowl. If he had opposable thumbs, he’d be shoveling kibble into his mouth.
“Where’s the stove?” Emerson gawks at my Transformers collection. “You removed your stove to store action figures?”
“Don’t judge lest ye be judged, okay?” I block his scornful view. “It’s still here. Simply unplugged.” I offer a wide grin, and he goes for the fridge and pulls out a tiramisu yogurt with such casual ease I have to do a double take.
“What are you doing? You’ve quote-unquote ‘lived here’ less than twelve hours, and already you’re like lord of the fridge. That’s my yogurt.”
“Anthony said anything in the fridge was fair game. He said he paid for groceries.”
“I … we bought them together. Or rather, I hovered over his shoulder as he added them to his Instacart.” After two years of dating, I’m finally realizing that Anthony was a petty piece of shit.
“We can share, right?”
“That’s the last one. If you eat that, I’ll starve.”
“I saw a bodega across the street. They sell yogurt, right?” Emerson pulls the lid off. “Now, where are the spoons?”
He moves to open one of the three drawers in the kitchen, and I jut my hand in front of it, stopping him.
“I don’t have any.”
“No spoons? How do you eat ice cream? Take cough syrup? Oh my goodness. Do you not eat soup?”
“I meant no spoons for you. You’re not supposed to be here. This is my apartment.”
“That I sublet. From what I’m ascertaining is your ex-boyfriend.”
“I’m a starving artist. Literally, since you pillaged my last yogurt. You have your Die Walkie-Talkie and your fancy professor job. I have no yogurt and a dog to think about.”
Bobo rushes over, plops down at my feet, and pushes the back of his head against my waist. That’s my bestest boy.
“It’s Die Walküre . And I’m only a guest lecturer. I don’t have the job yet.” His expression shifts, allowing nerves to spill onto his face for a second.
“Oh.”
A tiny lump forms in my throat, like a rogue maraschino cherry, unable to go down.
“And anyway …” Emerson sets the yogurt down on the table an d retrieves the document from last night. The one that shows the apartment is rightfully his. “There’s this.”
A knot tightens in my stomach, but I close my eyes and ground myself.
“I will not let a stranger in my apartment cloud my sunshine. I will not let a stranger in my apartment cloud my sunshine. I will not let a stranger in my apartment cloud my sunshine.”
I ingrain it in my mind as fast as I can.
“Excuse me?”
He adjusts behind his ear again, and a high-pitched sound echoes through the room. My hands rush over my ears, and Bobo takes a break from rubbing his skull against my crotch to tilt his head from side to side. After some more fiddling, the noise finally ceases. Oh, right—his hearing aid.
“Never mind. Here. I’ll get you a spoon.”
I take a step forward, and he moves, allowing me to open the silverware drawer. I catch a whiff of his natural, manly scent.
“There you go,” I say, and he takes the spoon from me.
“Thank you.”
He takes a bite of my yogurt. With my spoon. In my apartment.
“So, you said you knew an attorney who might be able to figure this all out?”
There’s a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, and I don’t like it. Especially not after I gave him a spoon to eat my last yogurt.
But I also don’t know anyone.
“Yeah, well, about that …”
“You don’t actually know an attorney.”
I grin, and the minute it appears on my face, I realize—this is my persuasion smile.
The one I used on Anthony. It’s subtle but effective, and I’ve honed it over time, perfected it for moments just like this.
The corners of my mouth lift just enough to convey warmth, approachability, but not too much to give away my intentions.
I learned this smile from years of navigating tricky conversations, especially with people like Anthony, who always needed a nudge in the right direction, even if he didn’t realize it.
It worked on him every time—made him feel like the decision was his, when really, I was the one pulling the strings.
It’s a smile that says “I’m not asking, just suggesting … but you’re definitely going to agree.”
Except this isn’t Anthony. This is Emerson.
I move to the sofa, sit down, and bury my face in my hands as the weight of it all crashes down on me.
This is it. I’m going to be homeless. Bobo and I will have to find a cardboard box big enough for both of us—maybe one of those giant refrigerator boxes, if we’re lucky.
I can already picture it: Bobo curled up next to me, his tail twitching in his sleep, while I try to make myself comfortable on a lumpy mattress of discarded newspapers.
Not exactly the dream life I had in mind when I moved to the city to become the world’s foremost Big Boy Dancer.
But hey, at least we’d have each other, right?
Bobo sits beside me on the floor. I lift my head from my hands, and he gazes at me with those eyes that make my heart melt.
“My Bobo. You really are the bestest boy.”
“Best.” Emerson swallows another bite of my tiramisu yogurt. “Best boy would be the correct version. Bestest isn’t a word.”
“Thank you, Merriam Webster.” I pet Bobo’s muzzle, his sweet dog-food breath on my face. “Clearly, you’ve never had a dog. I make up all kinds of names and terms of endearment for him. Bobo Baggins. The Bobinator. Bobosaurus Rex. And he is my bestest boy. Aren’t you, Bobolicious?”
Hearing so many pet names, Bobo rolls his head in my lap, his tongue hanging out, as I rub right behind his ears.
Emerson can’t help but smile at seeing Bobo all silly. I guess he isn’t completely made of stone. “When do you think you’ll be able to … find a new place? … I don’t mean to be a jerk, but …”
“This is your apartment.” I sigh. He has the key, the paperwork, and the control of the communal food.
He’s trying to nicely ask me to get the fuck out.
I guess I can’t blame him. If I moved to an apartment and someone wouldn’t leave, I wouldn’t be this patient. I should show a modicum of gratitude.
I stare at the floor, wishing I could disappear into it. “I’m still figuring it out.”
“Um, what? Can you please look at me when you’re speaking? It helps if I can see your lips.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I lift my gaze to meet his. Those warm eyes stare back at me, and I forget my train of thought. “I just said I’m still figuring things out.”
“Do you think you could figure things out this week?”
I have no money to move, and even if I did, where would I go?
I love this apartment. The neighbors. The location.
For fuck’s sake, no other rental in Manhattan would allow a miniature horse-sized dog.
Even if I could find a place, I have precisely thirty-two dollars and fifty-seven cents in my checking account. There’s no way I can leave.
“Bobo and I will be gone by the time you’re back.”
I head to the front door, and Bobo follows. Grabbing his leash, I click it on to his harness and smile at Emerson. “Have a wonderful first day at school!”
It takes all my willpower not to slam the door, but I don’t. With my head held high, Bobo and I head outside to figure out what comes next.