Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty
“Hi, wow, what’s happening?” Miles says as he opens his door, his eyes big when he sees that I pretty much can’t see over top of these grocery bags I’ve filled with supplies from the grocery store.
“Hi. Go about your business. Just here to cross an obvious one off your list.”
He’s frowning at me. “Obvious?”
“Food. You’re obsessed with feeding me. I’m going to prove I know how to feed myself. And feed you for once.” I push past him and kick my shoes off. And then I get the literal shock of a literal lifetime.
There is a man sitting on Miles’s couch.
I nearly drop the groceries on the floor. “Miles,” I say stiltedly. “You. Have. A friend.”
Both he and the man start laughing.
“Hello.” The man stands up and attempts to shake my hand around the grocery bags. He ends up just taking one of the bags from me. “I’m Ethan.”
He’s got copper hair and a wolfish smile. Handsome like a brand-new shined-up pickup truck. I’m immediately skydiving into love. Ethan and I will become a singer-songwriter husband-and-wife duo, we’ll—Miles lifts the other grocery bag away from my hands and then proceeds to put his own hands inside my coat. I nearly swallow my tongue. Yes, he’s technically just helping me take my coat off, but did he have to touch my entire rib cage like that? By the time he’s slid it carefully down my arms and assertively straightened my fuzzy sweater that’s just gone askew, this guy Ethan is basically just man-shaped fog, and everything in my life is fuzzy except for Miles. Based on the semi-smug look on his face, I think that might have been his intention.
“This is Lenny. Ethan is a friend from back home. A few years younger than I am.”
“Oh! Are you visiting the city?”
He shakes his head. “Actually I live in Brooklyn. We haven’t gotten to see each other much since Miles moved here, though. I’ve got an eighteen-month-old and I run a bar, so things are pretty jam-packed for me.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and shows me his lock screen. He’s cheek to chubby cheek with a grinning redheaded baby. I can’t tell which one of them is happier.
“Wow,” I say, grinning myself. “Your kid is happiness in human form.”
“Miriam.” He supplies her name. “She really is.” His smile turns thoughtful and affectionate. “Unless you have to get her into rain boots. Then she’s rage in human form.”
We all laugh, but then I suddenly feel bad. “I didn’t mean to crash. I’ll let you two catch up.”
“Well, wait a second. What were you gonna make?” Miles asks. He’s back from dropping one of my grocery bags on the kitchen counter and now he’s divesting Ethan of the other one.
“Oh. Well, I thought I’d make guac.”
Ethan glances between us. “I’d eat some guac.”
“Oh! Great. Okay!”
“Do you want some help?” Miles asks.
“No, no! That defeats the point of me making you food. You sit. Visit. I’ll be done soon.”
I go to the kitchen and quickly unload my perishables to bring home later. Then I set about washing and dicing and mixing.
Miles and Ethan are looking at some photos on Ethan’s phone, and there’s such affection in Ethan’s voice that I think for sure they’re still talking about Miriam, but then Miles says something about the brickwork and I realize they must be talking about Ethan’s bar.
I mostly tune them out, but every time I hear Miles’s rich laughter, my stomach flips. Ethan’s phone rings with a video call and I have to stop everything and watch as his entire demeanor turns into banana pudding. “Hi, sweetie!”
I hear a Dada! And then a long string of gurgle-babble that, shockingly, Ethan is able to answer cogently. “It’s in your bedroom, sweetie. That’s where we keep it.”
He disappears into Miles’s bedroom to take the rest of the phone call. I grab a chip and am just about to test the guac when there’s heat and pressure and Miles sliding up behind me. He bends down and rests his chin on my shoulder.
“You came over to make guac for me,” he rumbles in a low tone.
“Mm-hmm.” I can barely talk because he’s voluntarily pressing his body up against mine.
“You got hungry and went out and bought groceries and then came over to cook.”
“It’s not cooking. It’s a snack.”
“I want a bite.” He opens his mouth, chin still resting on my shoulder.
So I dip the chip and reach back to put it in his mouth. “Mmm,” he groans, chewing in my ear, and I hate that I think that’s cute.
“Is it good?”
“It’s the best guac I’ve ever had,” he says. And then he simultaneously slides one arm over my belly, resting his palm on my opposite hip, and lifts the other hand to the cabinet overhead. He grabs a salt shaker and adds some to the guac.
I can’t believe he’s got an arm wrapped firmly around my middle but also I’m laughing at this smooth operator. “The best guac you ever had needed salt?” I ask dryly.
“It’s the best I ever had because you made it for me.” Then he reaches over to the half-juiced lime and squeezes more into the bowl.
“Well, so much for wowing you with my culinary skills.”
“I’m so wowed.” He mixes and then dips a chip for me.
I crunch on it thoughtfully. “It’ll do.”
He dips another chip and this is getting absurd but I guess this one’s for me too. But before I can claim it, Ethan’s head pops out from behind Miles. “Save some for me.”
We both laugh and Miles hands him the chip. I expect him to step out of my space and back into friend distance, but to my surprise, he just curls us back from the chip bowl, to clear space for Ethan, and continues to stand directly behind me. He’s not hugging me anymore, though. His big hand is now resting on the counter next to my hip.
As the two of them talk, I study Miles’s hand. Strong, very still, dry skin at the knuckles and other signs of being a lifelong craftsman. There’s a bit of chip dust on his pointer finger so I brush it off. He moves in another quarter inch behind me and I feel dozy with the sheer heat of him. I get the impression that if I leaned into that hand even a millimeter, he’d place it on my hip, skate it over my belly, pull me back into him, and keep on talking to Ethan like nothing was happening at all.
“Well, the designer wants to paint it black,” Ethan says about something (to which I’ve barely listened).
“Jesus, no. Bad idea,” Miles says (and now he has my full attention).
“Why?” Ethan asks.
“I mean, aesthetically, painting brick…” Miles says.
“Is a choice, ” Ethan confirms. “But that’s why I hired a designer. So that I don’t have to make choices on my own.”
“Okay, fine. But painting fireplaces is usually a bad idea. Most paint is flammable at certain temperatures. So if you ever wanted to use the fireplace for its intended purpose, then you’ve basically put a trail of kindling out into your living room.”
“Oh.” Ethan looks stymied. “Well…yeah. Okay, then it is a bad idea.”
“I can help you choose the right paint, if you’re in love with the aesthetic. But if you’re not…”
“Yeah, whatever. I’m not. I just want my place to be nice for Mimi.”
“Is that your nickname for Miriam?” I ask, lips sucked into my mouth as I try to gird my loins for such cuteness.
He laughs and shakes his head at himself. “Yeah. I just bought my place and I really want to make it a home. Mimi’s mom’s place is so nice and…I just want my place to compare, you know? Does that sound petty? I don’t mean to be petty.”
It doesn’t sound petty at all. A father who’s hired an interior designer so that his daughter will feel just as comfortable at his house as she does at her mom’s? Swoon. I tip my head back and make aggressive eye contact with Miles. “You must help this man paint his fireplace.”
Miles smiles. “Apparently I have marching orders,” he says to Ethan.
“Thanks,” Ethan says to me.
“Do you have any pictures of it?” Miles asks, and they are back to chatting and planning and looking at Ethan’s phone.
Apparently they already had plans to head out to dinner at some place Ethan knows in Harlem, and even though both of them insist I’m invited, I’m not that much of a party crasher.
They do walk me home, though, each of them carrying one of my bags of groceries. And then I head upstairs and start a viciously determined Google search. I’m delighted with my findings.
I wait until I’m certain there’s no way I’ll be interrupting Miles’s friend-date and I snuggle into the twin bed, cup of tea clutched in one hand and phone clutched in the other.
Are you good at bricklaying? I text Miles.
What kind of question is that? His reply is almost immediate.
Ah, you’ve gone with evasion, I see. So you’re bad at bricklaying, huh?
I’m good at it, Lenny.
How good?
What are you actually asking me?
I send him a link to the Google page for bricklayers in NYC. There are, seriously, not very many.
This skill is hot, I inform him.
Hot in what way?
You could be a hot fucking commodity, Miles Honey.
There’s silence, so, of course, I fill it.
You could wear a tool belt and go impress sad, rich women. Charge exorbitant prices. Custom design brickwork for their renovations. You’ll be the hottest shit on the Upper West Side.
What brought this on?
You seemed really happy and interested and knowledgeable when you were talking to Ethan today. I think you need a job.
I have a job.
You need a job that ISN’T chasing me around the city with oven mitts on.
I like to take care of you.
I go hot and cold, melty and shivery; how does one just carry on texting after a comment like that? I get too impatient and call him. When he answers, he doesn’t even bother with a hi.
“The truth is, I’ve considered it before.”
“Well, what’s stopping you?” I demand.
“It’s not exactly a nine-to-five. There’s the job itself and then there’s everything that comes with starting your own business. I’d basically be MIA for a couple years while I tried to get everything off the ground.”
I understand right away, because, I’m proud to note, I’m starting to understand Miles’s heart. “You’re worried you wouldn’t be there for Reese and Ainsley.” I pause, and because I’m not dense or currently fishing for compliments, I add one more person to the list. “And me, I assume.”
He hums in agreement but then sighs. “It’s not just about being there in case they needed me…It’s about being there at all. I mean, things are going pretty well with Ainsley right now, mostly thanks to you. But still, the main thing I’ve got going for me is that I’m just reliably always around. I’m Old Trusty, remember? I can’t be Old Trusty if I’m out of the house fourteen hours a day.”
I pause, momentarily thwarted by this line of logic. But then, “I call bullshit.”
“Okay?” he says on a laugh.
“Miles, the main thing you’ve got going for you is that you’re you. I mean, sure, a lot of being Old Trusty is being there. But that doesn’t mean just being there aimlessly. It means being there when it really matters. And people do that in lots of ways other than sitting around in one another’s houses.”
“Okay…” He seems partially convinced.
“You are doggedly devoted and there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for your people. That’s super clear. But you need a job for you. Part of taking care of the people you love is taking care of yourself, right?”
As soon as I say it, the lightbulb goes off.
The Live Again list. The Kiss Lenny list. Very different at first glance. But they have something in common. At their core.
Both of these lists are about me taking care of myself again.
I finally understand what Miles is waiting for. Because, sure, who would want to date me if I can’t even take care of myself. But mostly, why would I want to date anyone if I can’t even take care of myself.
He’s been my lifeboat for months. And that comes with a very specific job description. I wonder if he’s reluctant to change his position in my life until he’s sure I can float on my own.
Determination pops open like a can of Coke. I’m fizzing and energized. Because once upon a time, I was the person who scrubbed my apartment down once a week. When Lou was going through chemo, I did her laundry and mine, shopped and cooked. I used to take long, winding walks around my neighborhood and call my mom when I got sad. I used to wear mascara and go to dentist appointments.
Miles might be my lifeboat, but he doesn’t have to be my lifelong Coast Guard. And I’m going to prove it to him.
—
And so …I officially stop trying to seduce Miles. And I stop trying to guess at what’s on the Kiss Lenny list.
Here are some places I redirect that energy:
I ask Reese if we can put a contract in place, outlining my hours, wage, and vacation time. She is so thrilled she collapses down and rests her forehead on her hands and I finally understand how uncomfortable our arrangement has been making her. All she wants for Ainsley is constancy and she’s been taking a huge risk on me, hoping I’ll continue to show up to work.
I call Rica and beg her to force me to go to a yoga class with her. To my complete and utter horror, not only is it a hot yoga class but she’s signed me up for ten straight weeks. I leave the class looking like a thirty-year-old Barbie that someone left in a hot car, but I’m determined to persevere.
To my utter delight, Jeffy actually takes me up on my offer to call me when he’s lonely. I’m working, but no problem. I put Ainsley on the train and meet Jeffy at Dad’s Books and Wisdom, where she, Jeffy, and Dad have a very long conversation about the Isley Brothers. Jeffy gives her a recommendation of a series of novels from the nineties about a scuba-diving detective who solves mysteries in shipwrecks. She leaves with a stack of used copies courtesy of Dad.
I spare Miles the hangover and bring Jericho to my parents’ house for Sunday dinner instead. He brings a selection of baked goods from his bakery that are so gorgeous it literally brings a tear to my mother’s eye. When my dad breaks out the grappa, Jericho turns his cup upside down and crosses his arms in an X over his chest. Mom laughs in genuine delight. “See?” she says. “ He doesn’t want to marry you.”
I stuff some of the extra cookies in my purse and an hour later I’m about to walk into Miles’s building when he comes jogging out, zipping up his coat.
“Hi!” I step so close to him I have to tip my head back to see his face. “Are you heading out? I was just coming to see you.”
His face brightens. “I was gonna drop by your place, actually. I wanted to see how dinner went with Jericho.”
“I think he fared better than you did.”
His face falls. “Well, he’s charming.”
I quickly course-correct. “My mom said to tell you that she wants you to come next week.”
He perks up. “Okay.” There’s not much space but he steps a little closer. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
I’ve been racing around town trying to figure out how to feed and water myself, and it hasn’t left a lot of time for pestering Miles.
“I’ve been trying this thing where I take care of myself. And I’m actually doing a pretty good job.”
I give in to what every single molecule of my being is screaming for me to do. I press my face against his chest, my arms banding around his rib cage. He doesn’t even pause before he matches my hold. This is the kind of hug that would keep our front halves dry in a rainstorm.
At this very second I’m elated and warm and I don’t care if we’re supposed to be waiting or I’m supposed to be wowing him with my self-sufficiency. He bends a little and rests his cheek on the top of my head.
“And how’s that been going?”
I tip back and catch him by surprise, his head still bent down. If I went up on my tiptoes, I could take a bite out of his smile. “Nothing’s gone disastrously wrong. Actually, everything went right. And every day I still end up sad,” I say with a little shrug. “Go figure.”
“You are blocking foot traffic,” Emil says from the doorway of the building.
Miles and I loosen our grip to glance around the basically deserted block. “What foot traffic?” I ask. “That lady down on the corner? I think she’ll be able to manage.”
“Move along,” he says, shooing us inside, a little smile on his face.
Miles and I board the elevator and the very second the doors close, I resume our hug. “Hey, I’m hungry,” I tell him. “Will you feed me these cookies from my purse while I tell you about my day?”
I can physically feel his smile. “Of course.”