Chapter 7
7
L ater that night, I decide a distraction would surely fix this. I run through my list of usual options.
An episode of New Girl. I turn it off after a few minutes.
A game of Tetris. I lose after level 5.
A pint of ice-cream. I’m not in the mood for a caramel vanilla cone.
I bury my face in Lily's back, her light snoring completely undisturbed. I can’t bring myself to wake her up.
I put Funeral by Arcade Fire on the turntable. I don’t bother flipping the record over.
I put the kettle on and pour myself a cup of peppermint tea but never take a sip. I let it grow cold on the kitchen counter, the steam billowing off to the heavens.
I check the same five apps one after another . Nothing scratches my mental itch. I am in desperate need of human attention. Logically, I know the answer is to make a post in my support group. Or message another member of my therapy group. But in my head, I’ve already kissed Jae about a thousand times.
I had only ever bought one bottle of liquor. I bought it at the corner store two weeks after Grant died. I had convinced myself that in order to survive the pain of losing Grant I had to become an alcoholic. I had taken half of a shot and coughed my lungs out something fierce. Ever since then, it’s lived in the bottom of a corner cabinet. It’s probably buried in the bottom of a moving box filled with cartons of saltines and cans of beans, if I had even kept it.
I need it for what I am about to do. I find it and twist the cap off and put it up to my lips like I’m going to drink straight from the bottle like a sorority girl in the basement of a frat house. Except I’m more like a terrified child trying to drink out of an adult sized glass for the first time. But still, I manage to choke down a pathetic sip.
Fuck. That was a mistake.
I wipe my mouth on the back of my left hand, my right hand hovering over the dating app. Just do it, you coward. I open it. I swipe through hot but unsuitable guy after hot and unsuitable guy.
I have my kid every other weekend.
Looking for that unicorn to join me and my gf.
I own 16 guns.
Only girls with D cups swipe right.
Confederate flag.
And there it is.
Jae, 27. I’ll make you tea and feed you all the sushi you want. Find me either in the kitchen or on the beach.
The profile for Jae.
He smiles at my flat face through the screen, dressed in his toque blanche , standing in front of the bar at Red Kettle. I swipe through his photos. A shirtless pic of him standing in crystal blue, knee deep water. I screenshot it. For later.
A photo of him slicing some salmon in some other kitchen I don’t recognize. A photo of him wearing a moss green beanie and sipping an iced coffee. I consider swiping right on him, briefly. It’s not like he still uses this app. I bet he would have shown me his profile yesterday if he did.
I see he has several tattoos across his chest. A smattering of roses and peonies. Two koi fish. A tiger crawling across his shoulder. I wonder if he still looks like that. He is muscular, but soft around the edges. He looks like he swims a lot. He has a golden tan.
Still, he looks strong enough to lift me and then some. His biceps are round and his shoulders broad, like he cradles and carries girls over the threshold of his door every Saturday night, bride-style, and tosses them into his California king bed after wining and dining them with some caviar and prosecco.
Shit.
I should not be thinking about Jae lifting me. Or then some. I shove down my weird feeling that I want to be that girl carried like a game-winning football over the threshold of a door and tossed into a gigantic bed.
Fuck it. I swipe right on him.
IT’S A MATCH!
Are you fucking kidding me? Why is he swiping on me? To fuck with me?
Lily is startled awake by my exasperated sigh and gives me a big, puppy dog yawn. “Me too, girl.” I pat her wide, Dorito-shaped head and stand up. I’m going to kill him.
The plan is simple. Knock on Jae’s door, my old door, and ask him what the deal is with the match, force him to unmatch me, and leave. I pull up our match on my phone screen in case he tries to pull one over on me and claim he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
Phone in hand, I rap on his door. “Jae, it’s me, Riley!” I call. No answer. “Jae!” I knock again, press my ear against the door and hear the faint sounds of music and water running. Is he doing laundry? Cooking? Taking a shower? Fuck . I’d lose my courage to come back if he doesn’t answer now.
“Jae!” I try again. I knock a little more ferociously this time. “Let’s go! Open up! It’s urgent!” I hear the water turn off and the music stop and a faint Huh and I bang on the door with both fists. “It’s Riley!”
Jae opens the door, the top half of his head peering around the corner through his chain lock. Water droplets fall from his forehead. “What do you?—”
“What’s the meaning of this?” I interject, shoving my phone in his face through the crack in the door. “Explain right now.”
“Right now?” he repeats.
“Right now.” I confirm.
“You’re so dramatic.”
He undoes the lock but still holds the door open only enough for his face to peep through. “Let me in,” I huff and he steps aside and opens the door for me.
He is shirtless. In fact, he is pantsless, too. He’s in a stupid, little white towel that looks like he stole it from the pool of a Best Western. It’s the tiniest bath towel known to man and he has the body of a giant compared to it.
His skin is pink from a hot shower. Freckles on his shoulders. Chiseled chest muscles and tattoos adorn him, flat stomach with a smattering of hair that disappears farther than I can bring myself to look.
I feel my cheeks burn a painful shade of pink and I know it’s traveling to my ears. He looks even better than in his picture. He could definitely pick me up. He could definitely toss me somewhere. Could he tell I was checking him out? No way. Am I checking him out?
I feel like a car whose engine won’t start, sputtering and wheezing as I try to force my words out. “What? Why are you answering the door in a towel? Are you a pool boy?”
“I believe you said it was urgent. So I came as soon as I possibly could, your highness.” Jae counters. He walks down the dark hallway as he calls, “Just sit wherever. I will be right with you.” He disappears into a doorway. Hopefully to put some clothes on.
I am not about to fuck up my only friendship since Grant died because I can’t keep my cool seeing a guy naked. Not naked. In a towel. The tiniest towel I’ve ever seen. I step into the apartment. I have not been in here since it was my apartment.
He has completely redone the place in the time since I left. The dining room is painted a dark calypso green. He has a big, dark brown wooden table with metal fixtures and about a hundred books piled on top. Jackets, scarves and totebags strewn over mismatched chairs. His kitchen is a chef’s dream, of course. A stainless-steel gas range with matching hood. A double oven. A state-of-the-art blender, food processor, coffee maker, toaster oven, you name it, arranged neatly on his countertop.
The green cabinets are gone and replaced with sleek, cream cabinets to complement his appliances. I bet the drawers are filled with meticulously sharpened chef knives, unstained silicone spatulas and god knows what else. It’s like a Pottery Barn threw up in here.
It is not the same place I left it. But I notice some things are the same. Cream baseboard, crown molding. An acid washed fireplace. Brass sconces. The French doors that lead to the balcony.
It doesn’t upset me as much as I thought it would. It’s just Jae-ifyed. I sit down on the brown leather sofa. He has it placed over a plush blue rug with a glass coffee table in the center. He has a flat-screen TV hung above the mantle on the fireplace. His remotes are organized neatly on the corner of his table.
I pet a needlepoint pillow with a house on it and gaze around my old living room. It is still quite barren with not much on the walls. Jae emerges from my former bedroom, seemingly now his bedroom, fully clothed this time. A black T-shirt and basketball shorts. I should not be eyeballing the size of his shorts inseam or thinking about him sleeping where I once slept.
His hair is still damp. I can hardly stop myself from daydreaming Jae in the shower, his perfectly sculpted body being drenched by a rainfall showerhead. I imagine what it would be like to place my two hands on his chest. How soft and warm his skin would be. I need to snap out of it.
I take a hot, heavy breath as Jae makes his way into the kitchen and starts pulling fresh fruits out of his refrigerator. How is this man hungry after all of that food?
He peels a banana and tosses it into his floor model blender. “Are you done checking me out?” In go the strawberries, raspberries, a splash of coconut milk and honey.
My confidence to confront him is obliterated in the blender with the fruit.
“I wasn’t checking you out.” I stand up and cross my arms.
“Then why are you still here, if not to check me out?” Jae starts the blender and I wish it were me inside the pitcher, getting sliced up into a thousand slivers. I did not think this through. It pretty much seems that is why I’m here.
“Can’t a friend just visit?” I don’t think he could hear me. He pulls two glasses out of a cabinet and stops the blender. I just saw him less than two hours ago.
“You just saw me. Drink up.” He pours me a smoothie and hands me a glass. He walks around me and sits on his sofa, feet on the coffee table, remote in hand.
I muster up all the courage I possibly can and swallow the grassy golf ball in my throat. I hug myself tighter across my chest and turn to look at him from the island, setting my smoothie on the counter.
“Why’d you swipe on me on that app? I didn’t even know you used it.”
Jae looks at me, as if he might be serious for a second.
“Is it illegal to swipe on girls on apps? Are you the swipe police?”
“No,” I huff. “That is not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
I huff bigger. “Why did you swipe on me?” I repeat. I need to know the answer, or I will die in this apartment myself. The need to know if he has a genuine interest in me—in the way I do him—outweighs any embarrassment I might have over confronting him.
“Why wouldn’t I swipe on you?” Jae takes a gulp of smoothie.
“That’s what I’m asking you! Why are you swiping on me?” I am growing redder. He’s avoiding my question.
“Don’t worry about it. Drink your smoothie.”
I’m starting to figure out the implication of his avoidance of the question. Even though I desperately want to squash my growing attraction to Jae, I can’t help but wonder what it’d be like if he was attracted to me too. Maybe he should be asking me why I swiped on him.
Jae sits there quietly. Either he was joking and is realizing it would hurt my feelings to do so or he is genuinely interested in me. It would hurt my feelings if he did it as a joke. Which clearly he must have if he isn’t fessing up after this painfully teenage interaction.
I walk to stand in front of him, my smoothie still condensating on the counter. I give him a masterful, bitchy glare and when he doesn’t answer, I take a big sigh.
“Fine. Don’t answer. Sorry for bothering you.” I cut my losses. I don’t know what I was thinking in the first place.
“Can you move? You’re blocking my view.” My courage is totally washed down the drain after he turns on the TV.
“I’ll leave.” I head for the door. It’s hitting me that I’m actually disappointed.
“Wait, Riley,” Jae stands up after me. “I swiped on you on purpose.”
I stop with my hand on the door handle and turn around to face Jae, who is now standing in front of me. I must look extra pitiful because he continues.
“Just after seeing your date at Sheila's,” Jae hesitates. “You looked like you could use some help. You were just so…”
“Pitiful.” I offer. “Ridiculous. Depressing. Sterilizing. Men can feel their sperm drying up just talking to me.”
“No, you just need some practice.” Jae finishes.
“I guess I am a little rusty.” I study his face, wondering what went on inside his head.
“Respectfully, as a friend, I just want you to get laid, so you can stop scaring the fuck outta people in any establishment you walk into.” Jae grins. “Will you drink your smoothie and sit with me now?”
I shake my head with a quiet yes . We walk over and I pick up my glass. The smoothie is very tasty. Tastier than I knew bananas could be.
Jae and I sit on opposite ends of the sofa and watch Storage Wars in silence until late in the night. I can barely focus the whole time. Thinking about how freaking close Jae was to touching me. He fidgets the entire time.
“I should probably call it quits for the night,” I tell him when I can’t take it anymore. He’s so darn close, but so far away at the same time. All I wanted to do was crawl up to him and trace the lines of his tattoos showing through his sleeves.
Instead, I slip my shoes back on. Jae walks me to the door.
“See you tomorrow?” He asks.
“See you tomorrow.”
I mimic him with a small smile and wave goodnight. Jae watches me patter down the hall from his door and is still watching me as I get in the elevator. It isn’t until the elevator doors snap shut that I realize I’m fucked. I have a crush.
***
The next morning I wake up feeling like I have cement blocks tied to my feet. I’m simultaneously dreading and looking forward to seeing Jae. It’s not like he knows I have a crush. Only I know. And I’m determined to squash it like a mean little kid does a roly poly bug.
I dress in my coveralls—possibly the least appealing thing I own—and tie my hair up in the world’s most unkempt ponytail. It’s go time.
I start my routine of praying I run into Jae in the lobby, and I don’t. That man must wake up at the literal ass crack of dawn to avoid me because it’s already 7:00 a.m. On the subway ride, I swipe through an assortment of men who, in my mind, lack the heavenly male sex appeal and god-like charm of Jae. What’s with me?
I feel like I am fifteen again. It’s so sweet I feel rotten. This is the first time since I met Grant that I’ve let myself indulge in and relish a crush. I knew love was a universally occurring, neurotic symptom of living life, but I am shocked with how much I missed being in love and being infatuated with someone. There is something about looking forward to seeing another person that makes you feel like yourself again. And something about Jae’s cheerful, optimistic outlook makes me look forward to seeing him.
I get off the subway and walk straight past Sheila’s Café, not bothering to see if Jae is there, and straight to The Red Kettle. I am here to work. Not flirt, not chit chat, and not nurse a dead-end crush on my neighbor.
It is only 7:20 when I arrive and Jae is not here yet. I lean against the door, taking in the seasonably warm spring air. I flash back to last night . Being fed his handmade cuisine. Accidentally on-purpose seeing him in a towel. Who answers the door in a towel if they don’t want to make an impression?
What do I like so much about this specific man? And how could I find it in someone who isn’t my friend, living in my old apartment? I like talking to Jae. He doesn’t look at me with pity like my parents do. He isn’t jaded or mourning like the folks in my support group. He treats me like a real human being.
Being in mourning and grieving had been part of my personality for so long, I don’t know who I am without it. But when I’m with Jae, I feel more and more like my old self.
We don’t talk about how I’m doing mentally. We don’t talk about how I’m healing or how long it’s been since my anniversary or if I mustered up the courage to go through old photos.
Ever since Grant died, I couldn’t tell if people actually liked me or if they felt bad for me. But it isn’t like that with Jae. He likes me for me, or so it seems. And he cares that I may not look my best even when he has only known me for a short time.
Now, that’s what I’m looking for in a guy. Not a dickwad who gets mad that I spilled some tea by accident and unmatched me after without even giving me a chance to apologize.
It’s 7:35 and Jae still hasn’t arrived. I’m debating on giving him a call. I want to get a jump on painting to get over my jitters about everything that happened last night. Another ten minutes pass, and I’m about to dial his number when I see him walking up the sidewalk.
“Hey!” I shout towards him, my arm raised in a half wave. “Everything okay?”
He’s breathless. “Yeah, yeah. Just an issue with my mom this morning.”
“Oh, no, is she all right?” I don’t have to fake my concern.
“Yeah, she’s okay now.”
I don’t even know what to say. MS is a bastard. I relay that exact sentiment to Jae.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I don’t think so. Thanks for waiting.” He unlocks the door. “I might be a little busy this morning, but I can check out what you get done around lunch.”
“I’ll stay out of your way,” I confirm as he heads to the kitchen.
I lay out my tarps and get to work. Today I will focus on painting the cherry blossom tree. I pinch out globs of red, white and yellow paint for the blossoms. I mix red and yellow into orange into blue into brown. A cherry blossom has the classic meaning of revival, rebirth or coming back to life, and I think, in a way, this mural is the cherry blossom of my life.
It’s the first painting I’ve done since Grant died that I don’t totally hate or scrap in the end. My mind drifts to why I stopped painting in the first place. I had no interest in anything after Grant died. Everything I once adored, suddenly lost all the qualities that made me adore it. The color was sucked out of my life. All I could muster was laying in bed, eating cans of condensed soup and spending money I didn’t have.
It was a long time before I could admit that no matter how badly I didn’t want to live, I had to. Otherwise, what are my options? After much group therapy, I learned that feeling better isn’t free. I had to work for it, every single day. You had to bust your ass harder than anyone you know just to want to get out of bed.
I am getting there. I had built up the courage to leave the apartment. I am making my own home. I am making new friends. I am finally fed up with being a wilted flower. I am ready to bloom and come into my own, much like the cherry buds that were forced to blossom by the warm air of spring. I have weathered a thousand winters, and now it is finally my own personal spring.
Part of a great painting is letting all the emotions you have travel through your body, your hand and into the brush and onto canvas. I let all my sorrows, troubles and calamities travel onto the wall through delicate but unbreakable flower petals. Now, anyone who looks at these blossoms wouldn’t see all the pain and anguish I kept buried in the bottom of my soul in a petite, pink flower and be none the wiser, but I will feel better about getting it out.
When I stopped painting, I kept all my grief buried. I turned it into a fortress around my heart. I forbade myself from doing anything that might bring me any bit of joy. It was my private apocalypse and anyone or anything that dared to break down the barrier would be shot on sight. Now, with each blossom I paint, I surrender every guilty, mourning brick in my wall.
I’m ready. I’m ready. I’m ready.
I’ve missed painting so much.
I am so engulfed in my art I don’t realize how much time has passed until Jae is standing behind me, gently aheming to get my attention.
“Hey, sorry, I didn’t see you there,” I step back and allow him to see what I was working on.
“No need to apologize. It looks great. Beautiful, really.” He gives me a shy smile before stepping forward and taking a closer look. “How do you do that?”
“Very carefully.” I answer with a coy laugh. “Do you want me to show you?” I pick my paint brush back up and dab a bit of light pink in the shape of a cross next to the last blossom I painted.
“Start with the base color. Now add your shadows.” I change to a slightly darker pink, painting around the arms of the cross, filling out the petals. “Then add your highlights.” I dab my brush in some white paint, mixing it with the dark pink for a bright pink. “Fill it out so the petals are rounded.”
Jae nods while he watches closely.
“Then, use a fine brush to add detail. And you’re finished. It’s very simple, really.”
“I think I’ll stick to cooking,” He laughs.
“No, really, give it a try,” I hand him my thick, full brush, already filled with light pink. “Paint the cross.” He paints a fat cross. “Now fill it out with shadows.” I take the brush from his hand, our fingertips just barely brushing each other. The faint touch buzzes me.
I dab some dark paint on it. “Just like I did, on the tips of the cross,” I instruct. Jae follows my directions hesitantly. “It’s okay. If you mess up, I’ll just paint over it.” I give him a confident smile. “You can do it.”
Jae paints in the shadows and then the highlights for a shaky cherry blossom.
“See, not bad, right? I’ll leave it in and you can say you helped.” I give Jae a warm congratulations and smile.
“Thanks for showing me. It’s fun, isn’t it? I can see why you do this all day long.”
I can see why I do this all day long too. “Just doing my job.”
Jae flipping through some paperwork behind the bar and I am thoroughly distracted by his presence. I can’t help but turn back every now and then from my painting to catch a glimpse of him filling the ice bucket or checking the taps or straightening bottles.
By the time noon rolls around, I am satisfied with how my cherry blossoms are turning out. I will finish tomorrow.
“Do you still want me to come by tonight?” I ask before I lose the courage.
“Yes. I have a dating lesson in exchange for the painting lesson.” Jae looks up from the bar, knife in hand and it looks more sexy chef than murder weapon.
“What makes you the authority on dating?” It’s my turn to tease.
“Didn’t you hear I’m a player? I’ve dated my fair share of girls. And guys, and folks in between.” Jae defends his honor as someone who can give dating advice. “And I’ve never spilt a drink on someone before.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“Come dressed in something nice tonight. We’re really doing this.” Jae sets his knife down and it clatters on the counter. “No coveralls. Or overalls. No kind of ’alls.”
“What? Why do I have to dress up if it’s just practice?” I poke and prod for a reason.
“It’s to set the scene, silly.”