Chapter 3 – Chelsea
When the doorbell rings it scares the crap out of me. I realized there are what, twenty million people in New York City? And I don’t know a single one of them.
I stand next to the door, unsure what to do. The guy explains—through the door—that he lives upstairs. Myles told me about him. He owns the building. I undo all three of the locks.
“Hi,” I say, as I pull the door open.
I have to look up. He’s tall and he’s filling up the whole doorway. Suddenly I’m terrified. I want to be back on the farm in Wisconsin. He smiles and that makes him seem a whole lot less scary.
“I live upstairs,” he says, holding out his hand. “You must be Myles’s cousin. I’m Scott Howell.”
“Scott…Howell?” I say.
He gives my hand a shake. His skin is rough and he seems to know that. He pulls his hand away and holds out a magazine. I accept it automatically.
My mind is whirling. It can’t be that Scott Howell. The one I had an immense crush on. Whose poster I had in my bedroom. Whose poster I actually kissed on way too many occasions.
Don’t tell him that! my mind orders me.
“Are you, like, that Scott Howell?” I ask, then cringe inside.
But I have to ask. He’s grown into a…very good-looking man. He was just a scrawny kid in the movie. Cute, but scrawny.
“Um, yeah,” he says.
He’s still smiling, but his eyes change. A little sad, maybe? I’m not sure.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say. “Come in.”
“I don’t need—”
“My mother would kill me if she knew I left you standing on the doorstep. I insist.”
“How…would she know?” Scott says, but he follows me.
Directly opposite the front door is the bedroom. I haven’t started unpacking yet. I lead him down past the bathroom/laundry room combo into the small living space. The kitchen lines one end of the room.
“What does the C stand for?” he asks me.
“Pardon?”
He points to the magazine in my hand.
“Sorry, Myles never told me your name. C is for?”
“Oh, Chelsea,” I say.
I can feel my face reddening.
“You just got here then?”
I nod.
“About an hour ago.”
“First time? In New York, I mean.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “We came for a vacation when I was twelve.” That’s when I decided to live here. “Did you…um, grow up here?” I ask.
“Queens,” he says.
There is a bit of silence and then we both start talking at once. Then we both stop and insist the other person should speak first. Maximum awkwardness.
“Since you just got here, I assume you don’t have any food,” he says.
“I don’t know actually,” I say, turning around to look at the fridge.
I’m sure I can eat whatever Myles left. He’ll be gone for two years, after all.
“Well, it’s just…”
He hesitates.
“What?” I ask.
“I’ve barely eaten all day. Want to grab a bite to eat with me? Over on Montague? I’ll show you the neighborhood, if you want.”
It’s my turn to hesitate. Then I wonder why. My mother would be happy I’m not going exploring on my own.
“Let’s do it,” I say.
Wow! Did I really just say that? Thankfully he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Let me go upstairs and dump this,” he says, raising the paperwork he’s holding onto.
“Meet outside in ten minutes?” I say.
“Sure.”
I walk him to the door.
“Thanks for bringing this,” I say, raising the magazine. He squints at it. “My mom and dad get me a subscription every year for Christmas,” I say. “I’m addicted to those interior design shows.”
“Oh,” he says.
He stands there. It’s like he’s thinking very hard about something, but I have no idea what.
“Um, so see you in ten?” I say.
“Right,” he says shaking his head, like he’s coming out of a trance.
I lock the door behind him. Then I run for my phone to text Sam.
OMFG I am going out to dinner with Scott Howell.
WTF? She texts back.
I’ll call you later.
You better.
I go into my bedroom and check myself out in the mirror. I look fine. I don’t need to change. I definitely don’t look…impressive, but I don’t want to look like I am trying too hard. I settle for washing my face and redoing my, minimal, makeup.
He’s sitting on the stoop looking at his phone when I emerge from the apartment.
“Do you like Mexican?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say.
“Good, cause I’m starving. I could go for an enormous burrito.”
I follow him down the street. His strides are much bigger than mine.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll walk slower.”
“I need to get faster. Also, to get used to walking more. I couldn’t get anywhere in Wisconsin without a car.”
“Huh,” he says. “I guess that makes sense. I usually walk when I can. Whenever I have to drive the truck it’s usually a giant pain.”
“You have a truck?” I say. “Here, in the city?”
The cars are parked bumper to bumper down the block. Sedans, mostly. The occasional minivan or a small SUV. I can’t imagine trying to park my dad’s pickup in one of these spots.
“I need it for work,” he says. “I’m a general contractor, well sort of. I buy buildings and fix them up.”
“That’s cool,” I say.
He shrugs and points across the street.
“Montague’s up there,” he says.
I follow him. My—our—street looks strictly residential. Although occasionally I notice a small plaque on the street level entrance. On the way up the street I count two doctor’s offices, one accountant and one lawyer.
It makes me think of Sam. I don’t know if a lawyer in what is basically a basement apartment would need a paralegal, but don’t they all?
“This way.”
I follow Scott up the street and we turn down Montague, which parallels my street. It’s the opposite of quiet, leafy Remsen Street. Tons of shops and restaurants. It reminds me of Main Street back home, just more crowded and a whole lot louder.
“If you go that way,” he says pointing towards the river. “You can get on the Promenade.”
“Do you want to go now?” I say.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather eat first. It was so nice I walked all the way from midtown and then over the bridge.”
“Wow,” I say.
He shrugs.
“I like walking.”
“I guess you do.”
We get seated right away. The restaurant has a whole book of margaritas and tequilas, but I decide to stick to wine. Scott gets a large beer.
After we order, he asks why I came to New York. I launch into a long story about how I’ve always wanted to be an interior designer and I got accepted to FIT last year, but I had to defer. I just didn’t see how I could make it work. Then Myles had to go to Germany so with the housesitting I thought maybe I could swing it.
“So you’re an interior designer,” Scott says slowly.
“No, I want to be one. I’m not yet,” I say. “Unless you count me redoing my parents living room.”
The one that is currently filled with TV trays and card tables to hold all the seedlings. My mom and dad like what I did with the room, but the plants need the sun.
“Huh,” Scott says.
I realize I’ve probably blown it, babbling on like an idiot about interior design. Mercifully, the burritos arrive and I am able to shut up. We concentrate on our food, but decide to skip dessert. When we get the check, he insists on paying. I let him. Maybe I didn’t turn him off totally.
We walk down to the Promenade and check out the view. It’s pretty spectacular. You can see all of lower Manhattan and the Brooklyn Bridge is right there. Scott points out the sights, but I can tell he’s not into it. He’s not into me. I suggest we head back, we’ve both had a long day.
We walk the couple of blocks back in silence. My disappointment is palatable, but it probably wasn’t a good idea to jump into bed with my next-door neighbor/landlord my first night in New York. If he wasn’t Scott Howell, the thought never would have even crossed my mind.
“Well, I guess this is me,” I say as we near…our building. “Goodnight?”
I didn’t mean it to sound like a question, but it came out that way.
“Listen,” he says. “I’ve got something I need to ask you. It’s a little crazy, but would you hear me out?”
“Um, okay,” I say. “Do you want to come inside?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Why don’t we just have a seat here?”
He points to the stoop. I shrug and sit down. I sit but he doesn’t say anything.
“Um, Scott?” I ask.
I really am tired. I just want a shower and to go to bed. I can unpack tomorrow.
“Wow,” he says. “Okay, here goes.”