Chapter 5 Puberty
PUBERTY
*Samantha*
I will say this about the world’s friendliest bodyguard-slash-chauffeur, Tara knew when to give a girl space.
I sat in the back seat of the black Mercedes, hands clutched to my messenger bag, fighting the urge to ask Tara to just circle the block another twenty times.
People streamed by on the sidewalk, many in heavy jackets, some in business casual, one or two in actual evening wear because New York is chaos, but all of them seemed to move with a purpose that I envied.
My former roommates were inside, likely with Andreas. Adjusting the engagement ring on my finger, I took a deep, bracing breath.
Unwittingly, I’d begun playing a perverse game of chicken over the last two days, where I tried to see how long I could go without making a total ass of myself in front of a man who had, for some reason, decided to be tremendously sweet to me.
I’d constructed a meticulous schedule where our time at the apartment rarely overlapped, save for a critical intersection at breakfast. He was awake before me no matter what time I got up, had made himself some kind of perfectly balanced vegan meal, and was waiting for us to eat together—having made me an insanely delicious non-vegan breakfast—by the time I stumbled out of the hallway.
It was, objectively, the best living arrangement I’d ever had. Even better than rooming with Kaitlyn. She never cooked.
It also didn’t hurt that, true to my planned experiment and hypothesis, I’d decided to dress for bed in a scandalous pink negligee on both Monday and Tuesday nights, just to see if my subconscious would be too uncomfortable to sleepwalk if it meant parading around the apartment in see-through lace.
And, miracle of miracles, the system worked.
Two nights, zero sleepwalking. My subconscious was more modest than me.
Not necessarily a high bar, but still. Go figure.
Anyway. Tonight was the first time I’d see Andreas in public since his hug on the sidewalk after the incident with Henrik. It was also the first time I would see him since the Monday morning sleep-lap-straddle-cuddle encounter. There would be friends, food, and—God help me—conversation.
Checking the time, I realized I was now officially two minutes late.
I exhaled, gripping my bag, and pushed out into the cold. “Thank you, Tara,” I said.
She gave me a little wave. I shut the door behind me. The Mercedes didn’t pull away from the sidewalk. I knew she wouldn’t leave until I was inside. I wondered if she’d already texted Andreas that I was here.
The wind had that metallic edge peculiar to late November, the kind that promises snow soon.
Smokin Greens BBQ sat on the corner, its windows glowing warm and amber in the dusk, and every wall inside was papered over with concert posters and flyers for local events.
In the window, a neon sign in the shape of a brontosaurus advertised plant-based brisket, which I found delightful.
Opening the door, I found the inside air thick with the scent of hickory smoke and something tangy—possibly kimchi?
—and the place was so full that the noise of conversation pressed against my ears even before I crossed the threshold.
Five tables, all packed. At table two, directly under a painting of a stegosaurus grilling presumably tofu kabobs, sat the entire population of my former apartment: Kendra, Diya, Nakita, and, in the seat with the best view of the door, Andreas.
None of them saw me come in.
Instead, all four were hunched over the table in a configuration that suggested a classified briefing, heads bent, shoulders overlapping.
It was Diya who drew my focus first, because her hands were in motion, gesturing wildly with a fork in one and a napkin in the other, and some of her words carried over the hubbub of the room.
“. . . skin dryness,” she was saying, “you really can’t go wrong with a retinol product as long as you’re also using glycol and a moisturizer with vitamin C during the day. Oh! Don’t forget the SPF.”
The others listened like acolytes at the feet of a particularly attractive and knowledgeable prophet.
Andreas had his phone out, thumb poised above the screen.
Kendra and Nakita nodded with the seriousness usually reserved for our discussions about corruption in the federal government or campaign finance reform.
I stood there, momentarily invisible, and took the opportunity to stare at Andreas for a full, guiltless ten seconds.
He wore a charcoal turtleneck and what looked like slate-colored slacks, hair artfully messy, and a watch I would bet my student loan balance was handmade by horological monks in the Alps or something like that.
His posture was impeccable even though he leaned forward, and the line of his jaw was relaxed.
He was, infuriatingly, still extremely attractive. I sighed. I kept wishing that the next time I saw him, I would feel less mesmerized by him. It hadn’t happened yet. So, I let myself enjoy ogling him for one more beat of my heart, then steeled my nerves and approached.
Halfway there, Nakita said something like, “And I think gardenia, because I have a hand lotion that’s gardenia and she said it smelled really good every time I wore it.”
Andreas, still typing, eyes on his phone, asked, “Was it a white floral, or more powdery?” There was the tiniest sliver of an accent in his voice tonight, which I only noticed because I was hyper-tuned to every aspect of his existence like an idiot.
Drawing to a stop beside the table, I cleared my throat and said, “Hey. What’s going on?”
Four heads whipped around in unison, Nakita’s braids swinging so forcefully they nearly knocked over the water carafe. For a half second, no one spoke, then all three girls shouted my name and surged to their feet.
There was a sequence of hugs. Nakita first with a squeal, then Kendra with a tight squeeze, and finally Diya who seemed to pat me down as though searching for injuries.
Acutely aware of him, I felt and saw Andreas watch the whole rigamarole, eyes crinkling at the edges, waiting until the others finished before moving forward and drawing me in for a quieter, longer embrace.
“Hi,” he said, and, without warning, took my hand and kissed it. Not a joke, not a flourish, just the faintest touch of lips against the back of my hand, then a gentle pull to lead me into the seat next to his.
I could not feel my knees.
Once seated, I tucked my legs under the table and placed both hands in my lap, partly to hide the trembling and partly because they were cold. Andreas reached over and grabbed my hand under the table, holding it between both of his as though to warm it.
My insides were rioting, my chest too tight, my brain in disorder at his closeness and casual touch. He likely had no idea what he did to me. Forcing myself to look around the table at my friends, and not him, I did my best to act normal, whatever that was.
For their part, my former roommates all grinned at me like they were lottery winners.
“Sorry I’m late,” I managed. “How long have you been here?”
Nakita flapped a hand. “Please. You’re right on time. Kendra and Diya only got here, like, ten minutes before you. Andreas was the early bird.”
Diya, eyes sharp as ever, cut in, “How’s work? How’s the new PI? Do you like him? Do you want us to kill him?”
I laughed. It sounded weak.
“She’s had enough excitement,” Kendra said, saving me from answering. “Let’s not give her a reason not to return our calls.” She smiled at me, then leaned over to squeeze my arm. “It’s so good to see you, babe. You look incredible.”
“Agreed,” Nakita said. “Is that a new lipstick? It looks bomb on you. You have to tell me the shade.”
I glanced at Andreas. He simply watched us, still holding my hand under the table, a tiny smile on his mouth. I willed my heart to slow down. My neck felt hot.
“Uh, yeah. I guess I’m wearing makeup,” I said. “Decided to dress up for the occasion.”
“How’s engaged life?” Diya asked, a glint in her eye.
I forced another laugh. “Exactly the same as unengaged life, only with more paperwork.”
Andreas, without missing a beat, said, “You forgot about the breakfasts.”
Nakita leaned farther forward. “Wait. He makes you breakfast? Every morning?”
I opened my mouth to respond but my brain couldn’t immediately think of a single thing to say.
An awkward pause passed. But before I could decide what to say, Kendra spoke.
“I hope you guys are hungry. I already put in an order for the barbecue platter. But if you want something else, the cornbread is life-changing.”
“I have never had vegan barbecue before,” Andreas said, his tone dry and polite and gentlemanly. “Thank you for inviting me. I am looking forward to it.”
“It’s legitimately the best,” Kendra said. “Every sauce is made from scratch and the owner is a vegan pitmaster legend.”
“Andreas, I have a question.” Diya took a sip from her glass. “What is your accent? You’re from Norway, right? Is that Norwegian?”
Andreas made a short sound of consideration, tilting his head slightly to one side.
“It is not. I am not really from anywhere, honestly. My mother was from Italy, and my—uh—father”—Andreas darted a glance at me, then back to Diya—“was from Norway. But I spoke English early, and many of my chess coaches from a very young age were Russian. We communicated in English and Russian. I think I must have picked up some of their pronunciation of certain words, as I most often get asked if I am Russian. Do I sound Russian?”
All three of my roommates shook their heads, with Diya speaking for the group. “No. Well, maybe. But sometimes you don’t have an accent at all and sound like you’re from the US. And sometimes I can hear the Italian, I think. I was just curious. I hope I didn’t offend.”
“Not at all,” he said graciously. “I am a bit all over the place, yes?”