Chapter 11
As the days roll along into mid-June, even with this strange Eli roof mess looming, it’s hard not to feel good. The sun is shining, the strawberries are actually starting to hit their peak in the market, and after that initial trickle, I’m finding myself texting with J pretty much every day.
There’s something sort of delightful to texting about everything and nothing. He asks about my work, I ask about his edits, but mostly we’re just texting about topics that have nothing to do with anything personal: The chocolate chip tahini cookie recipe I love from this magazine where I accidentally doubled the sugar the other day. The family-friendly movie he rewatched for the first time in thirty years and realized he was now older than the parents in it. The small elderly man on my subway car who started belting out Rod Stewart’s “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy” very loudly at seven in the morning before most people had had their coffee.
Somehow, in the span of a week, texting with J has become an integral part of my day. Usually the only person I text with is Dane, and she’s not exactly the most effusive—it’s basically a lot of updates about the pool league and photos of plants and flowers. Or I get the occasional stream of consciousness from my mother.
But I’ve never shared my fleeting observations so casually. Or had someone share theirs with me.
??So a couple days ago I walked past this little shop that had a kit for making a ship in a bottle,?? he texted me earlier today.
J: And I don’t know what impulse made me buy it, but I did. And every minute I’m doing it now, I’m thinking “this is extremely tedious” and yet somehow I can’t stop thinking about it? I get home, and I’m like, “I need to glue this tiny thing onto another tiny thing.” Is this how people realise they’ve gone insane? Am I preemptively turning into a retired person without being retired? Can you please explain, in your professional opinion, the psychological implications of obsessing over a tiny ship?
I write back in between patients. ??I’m gonna go with thalassophobia—fear of open water.??
??Ah, perfect,?? he responds immediately. ??I knew I’d come to the right shrink. Is that the most bizarre phobia you can think of???
??No therapist would categorize any phobia as bizarre,?? I point out, my need to avoid mental health stigmas stronger than my need to joke. ??But I think my favorite is triskaidekaphobia.??
J: Fear of poems with three lines?
I shoot back a question mark, and he responds, ??tristichs.??
??That’s the dorkiest word-nerd thing you’ve said yet,?? I type back while laughing. ??But no. Triskaidekaphobia is fear of the number 13.??
J: I think open water has more potential to harm than the number 13.
Nora: I don’t think phobias are meant to necessarily be rooted in rationality.
J: Now you’re just getting technical.
Every time we text, I can’t help but grin. Can you have banter over text? It sure feels like it. I put my phone away hastily as my next clients come in. But the conversation stays on my mind.
??You must have a favorite word,?? I ask a few hours later, letting my next question practically type itself between clients.
??Defenestration,?? he writes back immediately. I send another question mark.
J: It’s a word that means to throw someone out a window. I just think it’s so bizarrely specific. Like, in the English language we don’t have a word, for example, for your sibling’s in-laws, but we have a word about specifically throwing someone out a window?
Nora: That is an amazingly specific word.
Nora: What are some words other languages have that we don’t?
I don’t get to see if he answers, though, because the rest of my day is completely back to back. And for some reason, every single client seems to be having a particularly rough week. When I finally get out of work later, I stand in the waning sunshine for a few minutes. I’d booked an emergency session with a client who needed it over lunch, and there’s something sterile about being in an office for hours on end without any break.
But I let the noise and humidity envelop and calm me as I walk home. I know for a lot of people that might seem counterintuitive, but the energy of New York actually centers me. It’s always there, humming in the background, the symphony of constant motion, the steady backdrop to my life. I might be a fairly quiet person to others, but I feed off the bustle around me.
I get home and grab George to take him for a walk around the block. I’m excited for the prospect of blobbing out on my couch for the evening, so maybe I move a little faster than usual. After I enter the building’s elevator, a hand stops the door from closing, and Kwan steps in.
“Hey! Are you going to head up to Eli’s little neighbor roof shindig?”
Oh shit. I’d forgotten about that. Was that tonight?
I suppose I could beg off. After all, I’m not in the mood to spar with Eli. And I hear my phone ding, the little WhatsApp notification sounding.
“I’m probably just going to call it a night,” I say, my mind now unable to think of anything other than the phone in my pocket.
“Ah, come on. You said you’d go,” he reminds me. “Just come up with me now for one drink. You’ll be glad you did!” he nudges.
The elevator stops on my floor, and we both get out. Right, everyone is going to be directly on top of me anyway. I can actually hear the soft tones of some music coming from above.
And this is why I need to make sure I’m represented there. I sigh, and Kwan lights up when he sees he’s won.
I open my door and let George back in. He turns around and stares at me when he realizes I’m not coming in with him.
“I’ll just be gone a couple minutes, Georgie,” I say, kneeling down to give him a pet that he begrudgingly accepts, like I’m wasting his time. I leave my phone on the counter without looking at it so I don’t fixate while I’m upstairs.
Kwan and I walk up the steps and push open the heavy metal door that leads onto the roof.
The scene is unexpected—I’m not sure I’ve ever even been up here, but it’s actually an enchanting view. The buildings in this area are pretty low compared to the rest of the city, so it’s a straight shot above Union Square, and far behind it are the bright lights of the Empire State Building. Water tanks dot the sky around us, and I take in the view of all our neighboring buildings’ roofs from above.
Ours isn’t anything really to write home about at the moment. It’s just paved, with our own water tower looming over us in the middle of the building. But Eli has gone all out with his attempts to showcase what it could be like up here. Classic British rock tunes blare from a little speaker, creating an air of revelry. He’s dragged up a bunch of chairs and placed out a long folding table, which he’s covered with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth and lined with various drinks and snacks. He’s laid out what looks like a large swath of fake grass. He has a small grill sizzling with hot dogs, with a cooler stuffed full of beer and seltzer next to it. I’m not thrilled to see Gladys laughing with our board president, Hearn, over a game that appears to be cornhole.
It’s convivial, despite the slapdash impermanence of the decorations. And with this hazy summer day, even the weather seems to be screaming out for a casual rooftop party.
I see Eli in a small crowd of neighbors. It’s strange watching him before he’s clocked me. In our few interactions, he’s always been combative and on edge. But with everyone else, all that expressive energy is attuned in a different direction, the way it was with Kwan the other day playing poker. He’s animated, gesticulating at every point made as though he’s the conductor of the orchestra.
I don’t want to admit it, but I’m jealous of his effortless cool. He’s always carrying it with him, whether he’s antagonizing or entertaining. It’s like he was born with a chip on his shoulder that makes him both assertive yet charming. He’s got Tom and Meryl, along with two other neighbors from the third floor, debating something until they’re all doubled over laughing.
When they stop and Tom has wandered off to look for a drink, Eli absentmindedly pulls out his phone and looks at it, displeased, and then—of course, because it’s my luck—he clocks my arrival.
He saunters over, looking like a cat on his way to get the cream, eyes narrowing in on me with amusement.
“Well, well, well,” he says. “Come to break the party up? Find any loopholes about permanent imprisonment if someone drinks a lager on the building roof?”
I scowl. “Your exaggerations aren’t helping anything.”
His laugh is full throated, and I can’t help but once again notice him. I brushed it off more easily when he was sitting down playing poker with Kwan, but as he stands across from me, that potency is revived. I keep forgetting about it—it’s as though when I imagine him, he’s a regular (very annoying) guy, but when he’s in front of me, he’s this live wire of tangibility.
If I’m being honest, maybe “forgetting” isn’t the right word—I’ve tried to actively not think about him, since otherwise our previous towel-clad encounter would, inexplicably, live on in a loop in my head. After seeing him like that, I find it frustratingly hard not to notice the way his T-shirt sits across his chest. It’s baffling why I can’t shake whatever it is that sits between us.
But luckily whenever he opens his mouth, the strangeness of our proximity dissipates. “Do you want to take a megaphone out and tell everyone to stop?” he teases, clearly enjoying berating me. “I bet that’d endear you to them. Maybe you could suggest everyone goes back downstairs quietly in a single-file queue?”
“You’ve made your point,” I grumble. “Besides, Kwan dragged me up here.”
“Sinister, isn’t it?” he says, sweeping his arm across the scene. “Look at all this fun . Hearn brought up a delightful American game I’d never heard of called ‘cornhole,’ and I imagine it’s probably puncturing the roof as we speak.”
I roll my eyes. “Cornhole isn’t the problem.”
“I’m the problem?” he says, baiting me.
“You certainly are a problem,” I retort, and he laughs again. Maybe it’s the fuzziness of a few beers, but he’s watching me more intently than I’ve ever noticed before. It’s like he’s cataloging me and taking mental notes. Now I’m the one who feels exposed.
“Are you going to try for another pretend truce?” he pushes.
“It wasn’t pretend ,” I say, folding my arms and wishing I could somehow extricate myself from this situation. “I genuinely don’t want to fight with you. But I also think it’s fair to say I could hear the music from my apartment. It doesn’t mean you can’t play music up here, but it just means I wish you would take note of what things will affect the apartments below and take that into consideration.”
“You’re the only person who assumed I wasn’t,” he lobs back.
Is he a lawyer? He should be a lawyer. He’s always at the ready with a quip.
“Well, be that as it may, I’m here now.”
“I can see that,” he says, and the look he gives me up and down makes me blush.
I can never tell if this pseudo-flirtatious thing he does with me is an attempt to throw me off. He obviously doesn’t like me, based on all his belligerence, which seems aimed only in my direction. But whether he throws in those kinds of innuendo to make me step back or just because he enjoys it is impossible to say. After all, I don’t really know him. And on top of that, the strange kindness toward Kwan last week also refuses to stop buzzing in my periphery, like a gnat you can’t quite swat away.
The song changes, and I can hear the early strums of War’s “Why Can’t We Be Friends?” come over the speaker. I see Eli’s eyes light up and immediately know where he’s going to take this.
“ No ,” I say preemptively.
There’s that laugh again. Head thrown back, endless amusement, cheeky desire. He grabs my hand. “Oh yes indeed, neighbor,” he says with a chuckle. “Everyone, let’s dance!” he shouts at the gathered crowd, and everyone whoops and joins right in. I shouldn’t have expected anything better of my neighbors. They’re all a bunch of old hippies.
He starts to put his other hand around my waist but stops and catches my eye. I’m not expecting to see that the look there isn’t antagonistic. It’s asking permission, his eyebrows raised in a question, as though behind his bravado lies the kind of man who’s conscientious. The kind of man who lets a disappointed neighbor win at cards without being obvious. The kind of man who isn’t going to put his hands on a woman, even in a friendly-dancing kind of way, without her permission. That hidden Eli, the one I’ve caught glimpses of but never seen outright, needles me forward. I’m surprised by it.
So surprised that, against all my other judgment, I find myself giving him just the slightest nod.
He takes the win and swings me around until I’m unable to not start smiling at the absurdity of the scene. Gladys and another elderly neighbor are twirling together, while Tom leads Meryl in a much more formal box step of some kind. Kwan, Hearn, and a few other neighbors stand on the side, clapping and dancing. I’m a little worried that one of them—a petite woman in her eighties named Aretha, who, according to old “glory days” photos she consistently insists on showing me, has had the same bob haircut for the last fifty years—is going to dislocate her shoulder with how much she’s shaking her arms above her head.
They’re all cheering Eli on. It’s impossible not to note the affection in some of their voices and let myself give in to it.
“Give her a proper dip,” Kwan shouts, and I can see from the impish grin that takes over Eli’s face that I’m in trouble.
But before I can object, he’s already swooped me down, and the sensation is unnerving. I’m dipped so far I’m practically upside down, but his hand is across my back, steady and unyielding. There’s no fear of falling, but the way he’s holding me is making my heart race. He pulls me back up and wraps his arm around me more tightly, the jaunty beat of the song keeping us in a ridiculous pace but swathed with gaiety.
I’m out of breath and laughing with more abandon than I could’ve expected from a slapdash rooftop soiree. I keep expecting to hear myself tell him to stop, but that would be a version of me that hasn’t apparently lost the ability to speak. This version—this one that Eli’s spinning with ease—is evidently letting go and succumbing to whatever this night is turning into.
“You know Esther would’ve insisted on more than one dip!” I hear Aretha shout, and I see the wistful look that passes Eli’s face at the mention of his grandmother. I guess Meryl, Tom, and Kwan weren’t the best sources of information, since I see a few other neighbors nod along at the memories of their friend Esther, clearly inextricably linked to this man who I saw as a newfangled interloper.
Before I can even look back at him, he’s succumbed to the crowd and dipped me down again, even lower this time, to the delight and whoops of everyone around us.
I look up, and I’m surprised by how much my heart pangs at the boyish joy on his face. He’s had me physically on guard since the minute we met in person, but there’s something vulnerable and intimate that’s especially jarring in this moment.
I keep wanting to stick to my dislike of him—I’ve seen glimmers of good, but those are fleeting. The largest pieces of him are wildly unpleasant. Those overt slices that I saw in therapy, and then almost everything I saw after, confirmed my initial judgment of a person too self-satisfied to give leeway to anyone else.
And yet.
The music is swirling, asking, Why can’t we be friends? and those nagging inklings, that poker face, make me see him differently for a moment. Could I have seen only the worst sides of him? Did I only see him in a (woefully ineffective) defensive crouch on the verge of losing his girlfriend? Did I later see him hiding complex grief from the loss of a beloved grandmother?
He’s watching me now too—back arched, cheeks flushed, hair wild and tumbling toward the ground—and I wonder if he’s having the same thoughts about me. I wonder if his impression of me as the dour executioner of his relationship and as the busybody neighbor is the only slice he’s gotten. Our eyes are locked and asking the same questions.
There’s something so tactile about dancing, as though the speed of my pulse is coursing into him, and whatever our eyes are seeing is combined with whatever we’re feeling, too, as though my insides have turned to liquid without my permission.
He lifts me back up to applause—I’m not sure when it even began. His hand slowly leaves my back, and I can feel its absence almost as strong as when it was holding me up against gravity.
I clear my throat, trying to figure out how to break this eye contact that’s unmooring me.
He pulls out his phone from his pocket, a nervous habit that showcases only an empty screen.
“Somewhere you need to be other than your own party?” I ask.
I’m not sure I like the sharpness embedded in my tone. Do I always sound like this when I’m talking to him?
He seems distracted for a moment but then shakes his head. “No, um ... no, sorry.”
“Oh ...” I’m not used to him being flustered, and it’s rubbing off on me. “Okay, well. I’ve gotta get back. George, probably,” I stammer. I see his brow furrow. “My dog. George. He’s the anxious one from the banging. He’s probably wondering where I am. Thanks for inviting me.”
“I invited everyone,” he says, but the same bite isn’t there. A little smile emerges, as though he’s waiting for my retort.
“Well, at least if you guys keep dancing, I can let you know how the sound is from downstairs. You know, for when you’re paving and soundproofing. So you can know what the baseline is.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He’s making me nervous now. All that swinging and dipping and twirling around has gotten my head screwed on backward all of a sudden.
“Okay, bye,” I finally say, turning around before I can see his reaction and pushing open the big metal door to take me down the stairs.
What was that? What kind of pathetic, jittery stumbler did I just become? From a dip ? A hand on my hip?
It makes me worry that I’m imagining whatever I think is happening with J, because clearly I’m so starved for affection or romance or something that I’m inventing wordplay dalliances and letting a man who hates me get me flustered from a turn around a rooftop pretend dance floor.
I close my door and stand behind it, breathing out deeply. I notice my phone sitting on the counter.
I immediately go to it and open WhatsApp, instantly distracted by the thought of an answer from J. I haven’t looked at my phone since I asked him about words other languages have that we don’t.
He responded a little while ago—probably right when I heard the ding from my phone in my pocket after I’d run into Kwan.
J: Oooooh. Well, “schadenfreude” is such a good word in German that we’ve basically adopted it into English (Enjoying someone else’s misfortune). I also have always loved the word “tartle”—it’s esoteric and Scottish and describes when someone hesitates in an introduction because they’ve forgotten the other person’s name.
I lean over and pet George as I respond with one hand, happy to be in this much less confusing conversation.
Nora: Been there. How would you use it in a sentence?
J: Like ... “I experienced a moment of tartle when introducing a new client to my most forgettable colleague.” Or ... “I hoped my neighbour didn’t notice my tartle, since I’ve met him at least ten times.”
Nora: We wouldn’t want our neighbor to defenestrate us.
J: Ha! Exactly.
I go through the motions of getting ready for the night and climb into bed. George hops in with me, and it’s all extremely cozy. This is so much better as an evening plan than whatever else is still going on upstairs. It’s louder than I wish it was, though, and I find myself irritated at Eli all over again.
Nora: Although now that you mention it, defenestrating (is that the right usage?) some of my neighbors sounds appealing.
J: Uh oh, neighbour trouble?
Nora: Sort of. Just one pushy person who’s probably winning over the rest.
J: If you’ve got pushy neighbours, you’ve got to stand up to them. Never show weakness when it comes to where you live. You’ve got to make them think you’ll never give in, and that way you can actually find the compromise.
It’s amazing how J always sees me. I don’t think I’ve ever really admitted to him that I worry that I’m a pushover, but even without that overt description, he still gets where I’m coming from.
Nora: I have to admit that’s kind of what I need to hear.
J: You can do it. You give everyone else so much insight into their lives; you’re allowed to take a little back for yourself.
Nora: Sometimes I feel like I’m so much better at giving people advice than taking it myself.
Nora: So I appreciate having you cheer me on and hype me up.
J: We shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength. Never surrender!
Nora: Are you ... quoting Churchill at me?
J: Probably paraphrasing more than quoting, but sure.
I can’t help but chuckle. He’s such a linguistic dork, and it’s exceptionally endearing.
Nora: Well, thank you. Anyway, I know it’s super late over there so I don’t want to keep you up.
J: Totally fine. It’s always nice to hear from you.
Nora: You too. Goodnight.