Chapter VIII
VIII
Lucy
As we lie sprawled out on my sheets, James points out which of my travel posters are his favorites—South Africa, Morocco, and Germany. I tell him my goal of visiting at least ten countries in Asia, my least-explored continent, over the next ten years.
He draws a ballpoint pen tattoo on my arm of a pelican—my favorite bird—in flight. It’s gorgeous. In return, I draw one on his chest of two stick figures fucking. He gives the stick figures names and backstories, then describes their torrid affair in detail. It makes me laugh until my sides ache.
By the time I notice the clock, it’s after four, and we finally decide to crawl under the covers, still fully naked. I hadn’t intended for him to sleep over, but now I don’t want him to leave.
When I open my eyes the next morning, I’m face to face with that decision.
James and I are smushed together, his hand splayed across my ribs.
He’s still asleep, and his mouth hangs open, a slight snore coming from the back of his throat.
He’s so fucking cute. I can finally take time to analyze that adorable freckle under his eye—really unlock its secrets—just as soon as I know how long I have before my TA gig.
As I reach for my phone, he cracks one eye open at me, then closes it again, wrapping his arm around me tighter. “I have to tell you something,” he whispers.
My heart beats a little faster. “What?”
“You’re naked under here.”
I laugh, too loud for our proximity. “You are too.”
He tilts his head down as if to check if that’s right and then scrunches his face up, eyes still closed. “Shit.”
I kiss the tip of his nose. How is he this charming first thing in the morning?
“What’s your day like today?” he asks, slowly forcing his eyes open.
“My class starts at ten, then I’ve got to do laundry, bar prep, and work on my grant application.”
“When is the bar exam?”
“Two months.”
“And you’re already studying?”
I try not to let the dark cloud of stress hovering over my head burst open and ruin this moment. “I started studying a month before graduation. I’m clocking about five hours a day.”
James lets his eyes go wide, a playful terror in them. “Noted,” he says, keeping his voice even.
He turns his head to yawn. “OK. Well, I’ve got an event this evening—an engagement party, I think—but I also need to do laundry. Want to do that this afternoon?”
At first I think he’s joking, but he seems perfectly sincere. I give him a quizzical look. “You want to do laundry together?”
“Why not?” He smirks. “What could be more casual?”
A few minutes later, he’s fully dressed, and I’m back in my tee from last night. We’re standing at the door. “I’d kiss you,” he says, “but I haven’t brushed my teeth.”
He shoots me one last sleepy, sexy look as he trudges down the hall, and I feel my insides twist. Despite myself, I hope that feeling lasts a few more weeks.
And then I hope he says or does something idiotic so I can move on.
James
The next time I see Lucy, it’s at a laundromat on Cornelia Street. We have a spirited debate about whether laundry needs separating: I put towels and sheets into their own load, and she throws everything in together like a monster.
The next night, she invites me to join her, Rebecca, and some law school friends at a roller-skating rink in Bushwick.
She falls on her ass twice, laughing hysterically at her own clumsiness both times.
She also somehow manages to make friends with the DJ, the woman renting us skates, and an entire bachelorette party. I can’t keep the grin off my face.
Rebecca stares at us all night long with a big, creepy smile, and I have to pull her aside to tell her to chill.
“I’m sorry!” she whines, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “I just want you two to get married and have babies that I’m a pseudo-aunt to!
” I put a hand on her face and give her a playful shove, sending her gliding backward on her skates with a snicker.
The next night, Lucy and I watch Hello, Dolly! at her place, and I don’t think she loves it, but she’s clearly entertained. “I like how cynical it is,” she muses over the credits.
“Cynical? It’s got a whole song about falling in love in a moment!”
“Yeah, and it’s got one about how having a wife is great because she’ll do all the housework.”
“Sure,” I say with a head tilt, “but that’s clearly tongue in cheek.”
“And Dolly marries the guy for his money.”
That earns Lucy a pillow to the face, which makes her cackle. “She does not,” I counter. “She loves him!”
She hits me back, and I take it. “She likes him. But it’s a beneficial arrangement, first and foremost, for both of them.”
And then her mouth is on mine.
I want to pick our argument back up—to dig into her pessimism a little further—but I decide it’s not worth the effort.
All our conversations since the day we met have been surface level.
Even the hours we spent talking after our second “date.” We chat about our days, our likes and dislikes, but we haven’t gotten anywhere close to the connection from that first night.
I haven’t heard her mention her mom since the diner, and when I try to ask her more about The Hague and her career, she switches the subject to what superpower I would choose or whether I’ve ever had a manicure. (I haven’t, but I’m open to it.)
She also hasn’t really asked me about my restaurant plans.
Or my history. We haven’t discussed past relationships, and there hasn’t been any cause to bring up Miriam, my one serious ex.
Miriam, who had my whole family tree memorized by our third date.
She was so comfortable. Known. There’s a level of comfort with Lucy too, but only when the conversation stays close to the surface.
Whenever I try to dive deep, she slips away.
But I know Lucy isn’t shallow or inconsiderate. She’s just adamant about keeping this thing between us low-key, even as we spend all our limited free time together. It’s tactical, and I’m sure it will make things easier for me too when we say goodbye in five weeks.
I’ve been trying to keep a mental list of things I don’t like about her: She doesn’t appreciate Hello, Dolly! enough, and she washes her sheets with the rest of her laundry.
Right now, that’s it.
I’m pretty much fucked.
Lucy
I’m lying in bed, nowhere near sleep because this grant proposal is due tomorrow.
It’s after eleven, and I’m texting with James, who’s on the subway heading back to his sublet after working a bat mitzvah.
I send him jokes about how frazzled I am, but I’m fully freaking out.
I’m convinced this proposal isn’t good enough, but I’ve been staring at it so long I’ve lost all perspective on how to make it better, and I’m berating myself for not getting it done a day early so I could get Rebecca’s opinion.
I’m tempted to call James and tell him this.
Over the last week, I’ve been tempted to share all sorts of things.
Like how the salty smell of his sweat after we have sex makes me feel strangely safe.
Or how my mom, if she’d had the chance to meet him, would have gone on and on about how broad his shoulders are but then teased about his “undignified” blond hair.
I want to tell him how I love the way he always walks on the street side when the sidewalk is narrow but also has no qualms about me holding a door for him.
I want to tell him how scared I am that I’ll be completely out of my depth at the UN International Court of Justice.
And I want to hear about every girl he’s ever dated so I can joke with him about his bad choices and secretly torture myself over whether I’m a better fit for him.
But instead I text a tired face emoji, followed by a winky face.
I hate myself a little bit. The push and pull between wanting to lean on him and wanting to hold him at a safe, comfortable distance is getting exhausting.
I just want to be myself and not have to worry. But there’s so much to worry about.
He texts me back: “can I take a look?” I squint at the message for a moment, exhausted enough that I’m not sure what he means. “i’m no great writer,” he adds, “but maybe some fresh eyes would help.”
I frown and shake my head. He’s just being kind. “No no,” I text back. “The deadline’s tomorrow, so there’s no time.” Then I add, “But thanks.”
“it’s not til noon,” he responds, and I’m amazed he remembers the specifics. “plenty of time. send it now, if you’re OK with me reading.”
He’s just off a ten-hour shift making fancy bar snacks for underappreciative rich teens. He must be exhausted. “No, really. That’s very sweet, but you don’t have to.”
“i want to. send it already. we’re losing time.”
Still, I hesitate. It would be really helpful to get a second opinion. Even if just to boost my wilted ego. And if he gives terrible notes or tears the entire thing to shreds . . . well, it’ll be a lot easier to break things off.
I open my computer and send him the Google Doc link to my seventeen-page proposal.
I watch, unable to peel my eyes off the screen, as his little blue cursor appears next to my black one.
I should close my laptop, maybe try to sleep for a few hours while he suggests whatever he’s going to suggest. But I can’t.
His cursor sits at the top of the page, blinking menacingly.
Then it moves into the third paragraph, and his first suggested edit appears.
I wrote “compliment” when I meant “complement,” and he’s caught it.
That motherfucker. If he were here right now, I’d kiss him.
Forty-five minutes later, he’s made it to the end of the document, and he’s caught half a dozen typos.
I text him how grateful I am for his edits, but he doesn’t respond.
He’s still in the document, now back at the top, adding comments.
Most are questions, trying to understand my meaning in the trickier passages about specific legal cases.
Some are suggestions for how to rework a sentence to make it more direct.
By the time he reaches the end again, it’s after two in the morning, my eyes are dry from watching him work, and he’s made fifteen thoughtful suggestions.
I won’t take all of them, but I see the intention and care behind each note.
Then he calls me.
“You must be so tired,” I answer before he can say anything.
“I’m wired from being around all those thirteen-year-olds,” he says, a smile in his voice. “You’re a great writer. The proposal is amazing.”
I’m glad this isn’t a video call, because my eyes well with tears. “Thank you. Really. Your notes are so helpful.”
“Yeah? Good. It’s easy to give notes on good writing.” I can hear him pulling the phone away from his face to mask a yawn. “Now you should get some sleep, then give it one more look in the morning before you submit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, is it time for the sixth-date kink talk?”
I laugh. “Go to bed. And thank you again.”
“You’re welcome.”
I fall asleep within seconds of my head touching the pillow, grinning like an idiot.