1102 PM Mia #2
They were for her job. Mia was meant to write short descriptions of five of the scents, which would then be featured in the grooming section of Details magazine’s March issue.
She had worked there as an editorial assistant since graduating in 2005—this was her first real assignment.
When her boss had called her into his office to explain it, she was sure she was getting fired.
For the last six months she had secretly been using the magazine’s printers to run off glossy pictures of James Gandolfini and Kyle Chandler—her spank bank, Sasha called it, which was accurate because Mia did, in fact, masturbate to them—and she was certain she had been caught.
Instead, her boss, Eli, said he wanted her to “take a stab at writing some sexy scent copy.” Eli was three years older than her, and at Penn they had both worked on the staff of the Daily Pennsylvanian.
When Mia was a sophomore, he had edited a story she had written about campus protests against the invasion of Iraq that had won them both a national award for college journalism.
Now he wore distressed jeans and referred to certain Danish floor lamps as chic and sophisticated and liked to say things like “The other day I was talking to Anna near the elevators.” In his office at Details, he played around on his BlackBerry as he explained to Mia what made scent copy pop.
“You have to say things like, ‘She’ll want to do a lot more than smell you,’ ” he told her, and then excused himself to go down to the cafeteria.
“Is Eli still gay?” Sasha asked, handing the vial back to Mia.
“One hundred percent. The gayest.”
“I figured.” Sasha reached down, took the block of cheddar from Mia’s hands, and stood up from the bed. “Get in the shower. Adam wants to leave around ten.”
In the kitchen, she swallowed another sip of her lukewarm vodka.
A microwave sat on the counter across from her.
Its glass was streaked with grease, but in the bits that were clean she could see parts of her reflection.
Next to it, someone had set an upside-down iPod in a red Solo cup, and now Flo Rida’s “Low” buzzed from its speaker.
The two girls she’d been eavesdropping on had drifted toward the door leading into the living room.
One of them was smoking a cigarette and the other was holding a bottle of tequila by its neck.
Mia looked up to the top of the refrigerator.
She saw a box of Wheaties, a miniature George Foreman grill, a tub of chocolate fudge protein power, and—she blinked—an unopened bottle of Canada Dry club soda.
Over the din of Flo Rida, Mia heard one of the girls say, “No, listen, you have to add the cayenne pepper, the cayenne pepper is what makes you lose all the weight.” The other girl nodded gravely.
Walking over to the refrigerator, Mia held her cup in her mouth, stood on her toes, and felt on top of it.
Her fingers brushed the Wheaties box and the curved plastic of the tub of protein powder.
She clenched the cup in her teeth and jumped.
“What are you doing?”
Mia turned. Before her stood a man with dark, close-cropped hair, a furrowed brow, and a trio of freckles, lined up like an ellipsis beneath his left eye.
He was wearing blue jeans and a loose white T-shirt, and a few specks of silver glitter clung to a spot of skin where his neck met his shoulders.
The girl in the doorway said, “I swear to God I lost ten pounds in a week,” and with his eyes still on Mia the man’s frown deepened.
He looked familiar. Mia felt herself starting to blush.
She realized she was still holding the cup with her teeth and reached up to remove it.
“There aren’t any mixers,” she said. “I was trying to reach that bottle of club soda.”
“You just contradicted yourself.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said there weren’t any mixers, and then you said you were trying to reach that bottle of club soda. Club soda is, in fact, a commonly used mixer.”
“I meant there were no mixers available.”
The man reached on top of the refrigerator for the bottle. “This seems pretty available,” he said.
“Okay, well, I couldn’t reach it.”
Flo Rida changed over to Timbaland. The man unscrewed the bottle’s top. Mia heard a faint hiss.
“You’re blushing,” he said.
“I’m not blushing.”
“Your cheeks are bright red.”
“It’s the vodka. I just have that kind of complexion.”
“And what kind of complexion is that?”
“I don’t know. A Jewish one?”
The man held up the bottle. A few wisps of dark hair poked out from the collar of his shirt.
“Did you want some of this?”
Mia said, “Yes, please.”
Tilting the bottle, he began filling the cup. Then he reached into the freezer, took a few ice cubes from a bowl, and dropped them in too. The soda fizzed with the vodka. Mia said, “What kind of asshole throws a party and gets this low on mixers an hour before New Year’s?”
“That’s a very good question.”
“It’s, like, who’s in charge here? Whose party is this?”
“It’s Richie Fournier’s—”
“Right, I know, I’m just saying.”
“And also mine.”
“Oh. Shit.”
He was smiling. His top teeth were straight, the bottom ones a little crooked. He screwed the cap back onto the bottle.
Mia sipped from her drink. She said, “So I take it you live here, then.”
“As of two weeks ago.”
“You know that living with Richie Fournier is liable to get you on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, right?”
“My options were limited.” The man’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. “You look kind of familiar.”
“You do too, actually.”
“Did you go to Penn?”
“Yeah. I graduated in ’05.”
“So did I. I think we were in Psych 0400 together.”
“Which one was that?”
“ ‘The Pursuit of Happiness.’ ”
Mia began to nod. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s where I know you from.”
“You sat in the front row. You used one of those pens where you could push a button and change the color.”
“My mom sent me a bag of them.”
“That makes sense.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The man didn’t answer her. A woman in a pair of Seven jeans said, “Dude, you’re blocking the refrigerator,” and he took a step out of the way.
For a few seconds after that he looked at Mia, as if trying to work out the end of an equation, and she could feel the tips of her ears turn hot again.
But then he uncrossed his arms and his face relaxed.
The woman in Seven jeans closed the refrigerator, and the man asked Mia, “So how is yours going?”
“How is my what going?”
“Your pursuit of happiness.”
“Oh.” Mia pursed her lips, staring down into her cup. The ice had already melted. “Can you ask me in, like, five years?”
“That implies we’re going to know each other in five years.”
She scratched a spot above her right eyebrow. “I wasn’t trying to imply anything.”
“You’re blushing again.”
“I told you already—it’s just my complexion.”
“And the vodka.” He smiled again. “I’m Marco.”
Mia tucked her hair behind her ear. She was about to take his hand and say her name when one of the two girls from earlier hugged Marco from behind, spinning him around.
She said, “Maaaaaaarco,” and pressed her nose against his neck.
Marco’s back was now to Mia, and she could see the bumps of his spine against his shirt.
She watched as he wrapped an arm around the girl’s waist. Mia frowned at her vodka soda, then took another sip from it.
She felt suddenly exposed, but also weirdly invisible, like she had come to the party naked without anyone noticing.
The man in the striped shirt passed in front of her, this time stepping on her toes.
The clock on the microwave read 11:18. The girl with her nose pressed against Marco said, “Stop it, don’t be mean, I hate you,” and Mia finished her drink.
Then she walked out of the kitchen and into the living room.