2
When showing up somewhere uninvited, it’s common courtesy to plan your arrival for the least imposing moment possible.
I put a lot of thought into this—the time to arrive.
And here’s my thinking: Andy is a creature of immaculate habit.
Every Saturday morning he goes for a long run, though the length does vary.
He sets his alarm for 7:30, so it’s fair to assume he eats some kind of breakfast then hits the pavement by 8:30, then factor in roughly two hours for a run.
(Is that a reasonable time? I don’t really know.
But I did Google it, and Reddit at large seems to think it is.)
Then after the run he usually makes lunch and does meal prep things before making his work schedule for the coming week, and often even does a few hours of work, too.
I’m always trying to get him not to work on weekends, but sometimes he wants to.
He’s a developmental editor with a little indie publishing house in Boston, and he really loves it.
Honestly the only negative thing about his job—in his mind—is that it’s too flexible.
The man thrives on a rigid schedule, so he makes one for himself.
But anyway, I digress. The point is that I figure the ideal moment to arrive at Andy’s place will be some time around lunch, after his run and before he starts any work. Of course he may feel obligated to feed me if I show up at lunch, but there’s nothing to be done about that.
I walked here from my and Elliot’s place. It took like an hour, which is normally more walking than I enjoy, but I had time to kill. It’s now 11:00. That seems like as good a time as any, right?
I piggyback my way into the building thanks to one of Andy’s neighbors and head up to his second floor unit. I contemplate just knocking, but that’s weird right? So instead I send a text.
Me: Heyyy… are you home rn?
Andy: Yes. Why?
Good enough. I knock on the door three quick times before I can chicken out. It’s only a few heartbeats before he opens it.
“Hi,” I say with a small wave, very smooth.
“Hi?” he returns, surprised and confused in equal measure.
“Uh… What are you up to?” I’ll note that my voice sounds just as surprised and confused as Andy’s, even though I’m the one who made this choice.
“Nothing…”
“Can I come in?”
“Yes,” he says, stepping aside to clear the doorway, “but if you want to hang out I have to shower first.”
Only then do I realize he’s still in his sweaty running clothes. Whoops. Slight miscalculation on my part. But what’s done is done and we forge ahead.
“Yeah that’s totally fine!” I’m going for breezy and I hope it comes across as I waltz in and set down my purse. “Wow, is this a new kitchen table?”
“Yeah... Sophie, I’m sorry but why are you here? I mean it’s fine, but did we have plans today?”
“No, but I thought we could make some, if you’re not busy. But if you are busy that’s alright, I don’t have to derail your day. Oh and sorry, I forgot to take off my shoes.”
I dart back to the shoe rack to remove my boots, but of course one of the zippers is stuck and I tug and tug on it and I just know Andy’s watching me and figuring out more about my mental state than I want him to from my body language alone.
Out of my peripheral vision I see him walk over, then crouch down until he’s eye level with me. I petulantly refuse to meet his gaze.
“You should stay,” he says. “But I really do need to shower.” He ducks a little further until I have no choice but to look at him. “And when I get out you’re going to tell me why you’re really here, right?”
I finally tug off my boot, and we both stand.
“Okay. Yeah. Definitely.” I smile—at least I hope I do, though it might be more of a grimace. He gives me one more penetrating look before heading into the bathroom.
Andy’s apartment is ridiculously nice by the standards of Boston, home of America’s finest slumlords.
The front door takes you into an open concept living space, with the kitchen on the right and the couch and TV on the left.
On the opposite wall from the front door are the two bedrooms (that’s right—TWO!
in this economy!) separated by a bathroom in between.
And of course he keeps everything spotless.
No dishes unwashed, no sweaters discarded on the backs of chairs.
The walls are off-white which is a little boring, but they have a decent amount of art on them (mostly thanks to Lia). It’s honestly pretty perfect.
On the whole, NASA has moved around a lot since college ended, but Andy’s lived here the whole time.
In the intervening five years, I’ve spent many late nights on this familiar beige couch, drunk on gin and tonics or high on adrenaline.
Mornings and afternoons too, heckling Andy while he cleaned or cooked, indulging Nolan’s jigsaw puzzle addiction, or talking Lia out of getting bangs.
I’m idly drifting through the memories when I hear the bathroom door click open.
Andy comes out wearing a white t-shirt and black sweatpants, his dark brown hair now black from the water. His face asks about ten silent questions as he approaches the couch where I’m camped out, and I decide to just rip the Band-Aid off.
I pivot to face him fully, my knees digging into the couch cushions as I blurt, “Elliot and I just broke up. But we’re fine. I mean, I’m fine. But that’s why I’m really here, I needed somewhere to go. Is that okay?”
Andy stops dead in his tracks, and I’m starting to realize this is a bigger imposition than I thought it would be.
“I know I should’ve called or texted before coming over. Sorry about that. I just had to get out, and Lia lives in a studio, and Nolan basically lives in a frat house, so I thought here was the best option, but—” Oh no.
I can feel my throat getting tight. I really don’t want to cry right now.
I really, really, really don’t. Andy hates when I cry.
“Actually, could we maybe just not talk about it for a little while? Just a bit, and then I can go.”
“Hey, Soph, it’s okay.” He comes up to the back of the couch where I’m leaning and oh God, I made him feel like he needs to comfort me.
This is not how this was supposed to go!
Because when he comforts me it makes me more emotional, and I’m really trying to hold it together here.
But I can feel the tears pricking the backs of my eyes as he says, “You’re always welcome here, and we don’t have to talk about it. Do you, uh…”
He looks around the room like he’s trying to come up with a plan.
“Do you want coffee? I was just going to make some.”
I bite my tongue—not figuratively, I literally bite my tongue because I’m hoping it will help keep the tears back—and nod. He nods too, then turns to head into the kitchen.
Silence fills the room, interrupted only by the clicks of Andy taking the French press out of the cabinet and pouring in the boiling water.
“So are you here for the day or…?” He trails off, leaving me to fill in the rest.
“Actually,” I say slowly, “I was wondering if I could stay here until I can find my own place. Which will be very hard since everything in Boston is on a September lease and it’s February, but you never know, someone might die and create a vacancy. Not that I want someone to die,
” I shake my head quickly, “but I also don’t want to bother you.”
Andy walks over but doesn’t interrupt my runaway explanation.
“I just don’t know where else to go. I mean, I’m sure Lia would say yes if I asked to stay at her place, but she doesn’t even have a couch I could stay on and I feel like sleeping in her bed with her indefinitely is a pretty big ask. I promise Andy, if you let me stay you’ll barely notice I’m here.”
Andy sits next to me and places both mugs on the coffee table (on coasters, of course).
I watch his throat bob up and down with a swallow, and I think he must be running through worst case scenarios in his head: me leaving out dirty dishes, me playing music until 4:00 AM,
me sitting on the couch crying over some elderly parrot I saw on the internet while he’s trying to bring home a date.
I’m so mortified over the idea of that last one that I almost tell him nevermind, just forget it, I’ll leave now!
but before I can open my mouth he’s saying, “Okay. Yeah. Yeah, of course you can stay here.”
“I can… You… You really don’t mind?”
“Yeah. Yeah, no, yeah. Definitely.”
He’s nodding with increasing vigor, and bit like he’s still talking himself into it.
“You really don’t have to say yes. I get that it’s a huge imposition. And I would never, ever ask for something like this if there was any way I could afford rent at my current place without Elliot’s half, but I just can’t. I don’t make enough to cover it.
And I can’t keep living with him with the way we left things, so I’m just kind of… stuck.”
“How did you leave things?” he asks. He’s trying to hide how curious he is, but there’s a little twitch in his brow that gives him away.
And I want to tell him about the break up—I do, he deserves an explanation—I just don’t have it in me quite yet. So I simply say, “Badly.” Then, after a pause, “But if I’m being honest, it was a long time coming.”
He looks at me like he sees through my tissue and blood and bones straight to the core of all the things I’m not saying. Then he says, “Come here,” and is pulling me across the couch. His long arms wrap around me, bringing the side of my face to rest against his chest as he holds me tight.
Sometimes I joke that his arms are my seatbelt.
Because you know how the pressure of a seatbelt against your chest makes you feel safe?
It started just for scary movies at first (which I don’t like but Lia loves and makes us watch often).
Whenever there would be a really tense or scary scene, I’d grab one of Andy’s long arms and pull it across my body, the same way the strap of a seatbelt would cross over your chest, you know?
But the seatbelt has evolved, and now sometimes I do it when I’m just cold or tired or stressed and he doesn’t complain.
Just lets me grab his hand with a plaintive “Seatbelt, please?” and tuck myself into him.
This, right now, is a double seatbelt. Which is different from a hug, because a hug can be for anything, but a seatbelt is to keep me safe.
I told you Andy’s not the best with words, right?
I mean, he’s actually great with words because he’s an editor, but he needs to take his time with them.
Needs to see them written down, then revise them and rework them until the point is conveyed perfectly.
So I know he doesn’t know what to say to me right now, and I don’t blame him for it.
But the double seatbelt? Phenomenal substitute for words.