Chapter 9
I thought basement apartments were supposed to be cool, since hot air rises, right?
So when the landlord told me the apartment didn’t have AC, I was like—yeah.
Cool. No problem. That’s standard for Boston.
But apparently hot air rising doesn’t make much of a difference in the dead of summer, and I am now regretting all my life choices.
This is week two in Boston, and now that half of my boxes have been unpacked and recycled, I’m noticing new things about the apartment.
And by “things,” what I mostly mean is “problems.” This morning, my new hyper-fixation is on the small window above my bed.
Because the house is on a hill, the majority of my studio is above ground, meaning I have an actual window on the other side of the apartment.
My bed, however, sits in the back corner, and there’s a window way up toward the ceiling looking out onto… the dirt.
The window is disgusting after seemingly being neglected for years.
There’s a clump of weeds in front of it, but I can tell even from the inside that if I scraped away some of the dirt, cleaned the window, and trimmed everything back, I’d actually have some natural light in this half of the apartment, and I also might be able to see the flower bed in front of the weeds.
Because I have at least half an hour until my coffee is cold enough, and because my apartment is so hot I can’t possibly imagine being outside is worse, I put on a tattered pair of pajama shorts, a tattered T-shirt, and a not tattered Red Sox cap Jo bought me as a welcome gift, then make my way outside.
Careful to avoid stepping on any flowers, I hop to the back of the garden.
The weeds are quite a bit larger and scragglier than I expected, but I use my scissors (my makeshift garden shears) and my cooking spoon (my makeshift shovel) to part the vines enough for me to scramble through and access my window.
The bushes and weeds come up to roughly my mid-thighs, and when I crouch down to sit next to my window, I’m mostly hidden.
Unfortunately, I am now covered in dirt and twigs.
“Emma…?”
I sit up straight, my head popping up above the foliage.
Harrison stands in the grass, crinkles around his eyes.[*1] The expression sends a burst of glitter through my brain. Whoosh. Glitter bomb.
“Hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “Long time no see.” It’s been eighty-one hours since I left his apartment in tears. But who’s counting?
He stares at me for a moment with faint amusement before asking, “Dare I ask what you’re doing?”
I hold up my large spoon. “Gardening.”
He clearly doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. Instead, he brings an iced coffee up to his mouth and takes a sip, still staring at the bush with a confused expression.
He’s holding a second iced coffee in his other hand, and before I have time to ask why, he jumps over the flower bed, then sits down with his back leaning up against the wall and hands me the second coffee.
“Our building doesn’t have AC units,” he explains, taking another sip of his coffee, “so when it’s this hot, I always get iced coffee in the morning before work. Figured you’d need one, too.”
I blink at him.
“Can’t have you going about your morning uncaffeinated,” he adds.
I blink again, and my jaw goes slack. His dimple appears.
“You don’t hate me,” I say.
He stretches his legs out, slotting them between plants. “I told you. I never hated you.”
“You did hate pineapple pizza, though.”
Another dimple.
“You bought me coffee,” I say. Another statement.
“I did.”
“What’s your Venmo again?”
“No.”
“Yes,” I say, reaching out my hand as if to grab it. I make the gimme hand motion.
Harrison reaches out, grabs my hand, and then plops it back onto my lap, giving it a pat.
Every ounce of blood in my entire body rushes to my hand. Or my head. Or maybe to my reproductive system. Regardless, there’s a lot of blood moving around, and I experience a moment of dizziness. Even as I force myself back to reality, there’s a ringing in my ears.
“So…” I say, “I didn’t ruin everything?”
“No,” he says quietly. “You didn’t. Any ruination that’s occurred in my life in the last few days has been entirely my own doing.”
“So what does that mean…for us?” I ask hesitantly.
“It means I hope we can be friendly.” He takes a long sip of coffee, then shoots me a half smile. “On a trial basis.”
Friendly on a trial basis. Got it. Not great, but I can work with that.
“What made you change your mind?” I ask.
“You looked pretty ridiculous sitting in the dirt,” he says. “Hard to be mad at someone who looks that pitiful.”
I reach out and flick his arm, and he pulls away from me, laughing.
“It was something you said, actually,” he says, growing more serious. “That you’d been thinking for the last five years about what it would be like to have a second chance,” he continues. “That’s what you told me. And, well, I have, too.”
“You have?” The question comes out as more of a desperate whimper.
“How could I not? So, if it’s taken up so much of both of our brain space, maybe we just need to figure it out. Especially now that we’re neighbors, right? Let’s get some…closure.”
Oh.
Closure is what you get before you leave someone. That’s not what you get at the beginning of a rekindled friendship.
“Right,” I say, taking a forced sip of coffee. “Yeah, I just really need closure, and we shouldn’t pass up the opportunity to get that.”
“Exactly,” he says confidently.
Unfortunately, what I want is a little more than closure.
I want to Do Better and regain the most meaningful friendship I’ve ever had.
I want to make sure he doesn’t think I’m an asshole, and I want to make sure he knows I care about him.
I want him to visit me at work simply because he wants to see me.
I want to return the favor and bring him iced coffee when it’s hot and hot coffee when it’s icy.
I want to lie on his couch and watch movies without being hyperaware of every movement and every word, desperate to interpret his feelings.
And if we’re being honest, I still, even after five years, want a little more. But even if he was interested, I have a lot to figure out first.
So, if closure with Harrison is the best I can get, so be it.
This is the best possible outcome, and because I’m a strong young woman, I’m happy about that.
I will be happy about that. I will take the wins I can get, and I will applaud myself.
Go, Emma! You’re a rock star! You may be clueless and hopeless and single, but at least you’re (trying to be) stronger and more independent!
There’s a quiet moment where we’re both sipping our coffee, only interrupted by the yells and curses of angry Boston drivers and the quiet chirping of birds.
My pocket begins to buzz, and on impulse, I grab my phone to peek at who’s calling. Mom, it reads, a picture of the two of us on the beach lighting up the screen.
“You can pick it up,” Harrison says, gesturing to my phone with his coffee. “I’m sure she wants to hear how your move went.”
I mute the call, then shoot her a quick text. Sorry, at work.
“I already talked to her yesterday,” I lie. “I’m sure she’s just bored and wants to chat,” I lie again.
“I just…” I start to say, then sigh. “I don’t want to answer questions about work. I’m not ready to talk to them about leaving my old job.” He nods in acknowledgment, and I give him a lopsided smile. “As if you always answer when your mom calls.”
“Well…I do now, actually.” He sips his coffee before continuing. “My parents got divorced last year. My dad is living in Florida.” He doesn’t look at me while he says it.
I only met his parents a few times in college, but every interaction was generally unpleasant.
After I gave them an earful about not pressuring Harrison to study law when he clearly didn’t want to, I wasn’t invited to any more annual Parents’ Weekend dinners.
I did interact with them after that—hard not to when you’re constantly hanging out with their son—but it was understood that they didn’t like me, and I didn’t like them.
And besides, I wasn’t missing much. They were terse and unpleasant with everyone, including each other.
I assumed they were always at each other’s throats because…
I don’t know, they’re lawyers? That’s their personality?
Apparently, it’s actually because they didn’t get along.
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” I say.
“Don’t be,” he says quickly, rolling his eyes. “It was time.”
“So now you pick up whenever your mom calls?”
He pulls his lips to the side, considering, before nodding slowly. “She’s not doing great, to be honest.”
He doesn’t volunteer any additional information, and I am certainly not in a position to ask direct questions about anyone’s health, mental or physical, so I refrain, instead saying, “I’m sure she’s glad you’re always available to support her.”
Harrison tightens his lips in what I’m sure is supposed to be a smile but looks more like a cringe. “So,” he says, changing the subject. “Tell me again why you’re sitting in the dirt in your pajamas?”
I knock my knuckles against the glass. Dirt smudges off, leaving mud on my hands and cleanish circles on the window. “The dirty window was driving me crazy. The weeds were blocking my view.”
Harrison studies the situation, eyes darting between the window, the plants, and my makeshift tools. He sticks out his right hand, palm facing up. “Scissors, please.”
I hand them over, and he crawls up on his knees.
His pants are now covered in dirt, but apparently, he doesn’t care, because he leans forward and starts hacking away at the weeds.
I want to offer to help, but he’s in the zone.
He’s the surgeon, and this plant is the patient, and if I interfere, I put everyone at risk.
Instead, I shift, moving dirt away from the glass using my spoon.
A few minutes later, I look back to find Harrison has carved away at the weeds enough to create an unobstructed view of the flowers. They peek out, red and yellow and lots of green, and I gasp before I can stop myself.
“It’s perfect,” I say, and when he turns back to face me, there’s an expression on his face that makes me blush from head to toe.[*2]
“Do you have glass cleaner?” he asks.
“I didn’t move my cleaning supplies from Florida to Massachusetts, no.”
He rolls his eyes as he leans over and pulls up the corner of his T-shirt to wipe at the window, smudging the dirt enough to have a clear view of…
A sagging air mattress covered in balled-up sheets.
He eyes me, his smile half confused and half amused. “Is that where you’ve been sleeping?”
I take a sip of iced coffee to hide my embarrassment. “I haven’t gotten around to buying a bed frame yet.”
When he sighs, there’s no malice in it, which I take as a huge win.
“It’s on my to-do list,” I add.
The deadpan expression he gives me unexpectedly pulls a full laugh out of me, which makes his eyes crinkle up, which sends another glitter bomb (whoosh) through my brain.
He stands up, brushes the dirt off his legs, and holds his hand out for my empty coffee cup. I give it to him.
“What are you doing after work today?” he asks. “I have to drive out toward IKEA anyway. Want to go?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” he says, then transfers both empty coffee cups to one hand and holds the other hand out for me. I take it, and he pulls me up from the ground.
“I’d love that. Thank you,” I say. He nods and promptly drops my hand.
Skip Notes
*1 Crinkles around eyes · Left dimple · Lopsided smile | Facial expression | Frequency: medium
Amused.
*2 Wide smile · Dimples · Eyes crinkled | Facial expression | Frequency: medium
Joy.