4. Mia
FOUR
Mia
We decide to start with a Hey. This is Mia. We met at the bar in Wildwood . I hit send, then take a huge bite of blueberry pancake. We’re eating breakfast at the tiny corner place by our apartment.
“That’s it?” I ask, with a mouth full of pancake. “No other details? Like ‘I’m back in town’ or ‘let’s hang out’? Should I ask any questions?”
“This is not the time to ask him for his SAT scores, Mia,” Elias replies, visibly frustrated, stabbing at his omelet with his fork. “You want to keep it short and sweet. Don’t sound too desperate. Build tension.”
I’m honestly pretty surprised he agreed to help me, but I think it makes total sense. I can’t fucking talk to men, and Elias is an unfortunate woman-eater. I want to be a man-eater. I want to be the woman version of Elias, so it only makes sense to get coached by the best. And I meant what I said earlier. I do trust him. It’s impossible not to. I’ve known him my whole life. I’m pretty sure he was there when my parents brought my newborn-self home from the hospital, for fuck’s sake. Elias (and Leo) beat up my first boyfriend when I found out he was cheating on me with Rebecca Linden. I was thirteen. It’s one of my fondest memories. Oh, and I’ve seen his dick, which has to count for something.
“Obviously not questions like that, but how about like ‘wyd?’ or ‘wanna hang?’ or ‘u up?’ or something like that,” I ask, genuinely curious.
“We aren’t twenty-two-years old anymore, Meems.”
“Okay, then how about like ‘wanna grab a drink’ or something?—”
Elias is saved by the ding of my phone.
“EEK,” I squeal. “It’s him! That was fast.”
“…desperate...” I think I hear Elias mumble.
I pull up my messages.
Hey, beautiful. I’ve been waiting for your text.
“EEK,” I squeal again. “He thinks I’m beautiful!” I say, turning the phone towards Elias, who continues his grumbling. “He’s been waiting for my text! Ugh, and I love when guys use punctuation in text messages.” I swoon.
“…fucking hate this… obviously…”
“What should I say next? Should I say ‘sorry, I just got back a week ago?’ In case he’s upset that I didn’t text him right away?”
“No, don’t say that,” Elias says, resigned. “Never apologize to a guy if his feelings get hurt because of something that was out of your control.”
“True. Then how about ‘wanna grab a drink soon?’”
He nods. “That sounds good.”
“With a smiley emoji?”
“No emojis.”
“Eggplant?”
“Mia.”
“Kidding.” I type out my message and press send.
“Did you learn anything about this guy when you were at the bar?” Elias asks. “How old he is? What he does for a living? If he’s a serial killer?” He scratches absentmindedly at a well-muscled tricep, one likely capable of bench-pressing a small ox.
“No Elias, hence me wanting to ask him questions before meeting up with him!” I say indignantly.
“Hmm. I didn’t really think about it. Yeah, I guess it’s different for women meeting up with men. Less safe.” He thinks about it for a moment. “Maybe you should ask him a few questions. Or maybe we should stalk him or something. Did you get any of his social media accounts?”
“No,” I say sadly. “He’s not a social media guy, or he’s so private that he’s eluded my superior stalking skills. The one thing I didn’t check was LinkedIn, because I don’t have one. Do you have one?”
“Why would I need one?” he asks. “We’re teachers who will work for the NYCDOE until we’re dead or earn our pension. Whichever comes first.”
“Maybe we can borrow Leo’s account?—”
“Hard no,” he says, his fork clattering onto the table. “We will not be telling Leo about any of this.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m helping his little sister get laid , Mia. Is that a fucking joke? Are you serious?”
“True,” I hum. My phone dings.
Absolutely. When are you free?
Elated, I show the text to Elias. “Can I say tonight?!”
“Whoa, man-eater, slow down,” Elias says, looking alarmed. “One, again, you don’t want to seem too desperate?—”
“I am desperate, Elias; I’m aching for it,” I whine breathlessly.
Elias coughs, shifting in his seat. He coughs again. “Two,” he tries, but his voice sounds strangled, and he has to clear his throat another time. “Two, what happened to finding out if he’s a serial killer or not? Three, I thought we were going to take this week to practice?”
I think about it for a second. “These are all valid points,” I tell him. “So what should I say?”
“Tell him week after next,” Elias says. “Because you won’t be here next weekend. And always pick a weekday for a first date.”
“Why?”
“Less pressure,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. I watch as the sunlight catches in his light brown curls, making him look like an adult cherub. “On weekdays, everyone has work the next day, so the night can’t really last too long.”
“But what if I want the night to last long?” I ask, waggling my eyebrows suggestively.
“Don’t do that,” he tells me, unaffected. He continues. “Then you can do that over the weekend. On the second date. And by then, you’ll hopefully have a better idea of whether or not he’s a serial killer.”
I tap my fingers on the table, contemplating. “Okay.” I start typing. This week is tough, and I’m out of town next weekend. How about the week after that? Maybe Monday? I turn the phone to show it to Elias. “Does this look good?”
He nods, and I hit send.
I take another sip of my latte. “So how about you, woman-eater? How’s the dating life going for you?”
He raises a thick eyebrow. “I mean, you’re around the apartment most weekend mornings, aren’t you?”
I cringe. “I see the Blonde Parade out of your bedroom most Sunday mornings, yes. But never the same person twice.”
“Then there you go. That’s how it’s going.” He gives me a cocky grin, sans Dimple. Something about it seems vacant.
“It seems a little lonely,” I tell him gently, and the grin freezes on his face.
“How does it sound lonely?” he scoffs.
“Not physically lonely, I guess. More like, emotionally lonely. I feel like it could be lacking a sort of connection, or intimacy, maybe. Especially when it’s a consistent experience.” I look down at my half eaten pancakes, huffing a laugh without humor. “Not like I should be talking. I’m both physically and emotionally lonely.”
My last relationship was with Ethan, almost two years ago. He was a friend of my friend Andrea’s, because it’s not like I can get my shit together enough to just meet someone on a random night out at a bar in the East Village. We had to be introduced. We stayed together for about a year until it sort of… petered out. We lost the spark. I just wasn’t interested anymore, and I think he felt the same, and we split amicably.
The sex was fine, vanilla and scheduled, if anything. It was fine, all right, like how vanilla ice cream is all right. There’s sugar and cream and maybe an orgasm, but nothing sensational. He made sure I got off… most of the time. He wasn’t really a ‘follow instructions’ kind of guy, or maybe I was just poor at standing up for myself and communicating. But it was never particularly memorable. It’s not like we would ever devour one another other, or that I would crave him, or anything. It’s not like I would masturbate thinking about him. Not like…
“This is the most depressing breakfast of my life,” Elias says, and my eyes snap up to meet his green ones. They’re a dull color, flat, skewing bronze.
My phone dings.
I have a late meeting Monday, but how about that Wednesday?
I text back immediately.
Sounds good.
I go to put my phone down before it dings again.
Can I keep texting you until then?
I smile, my body filling with warmth.
Yes.
“What’s he saying?” Elias asks.
“We’re going to meet the Wednesday after we get back from New Orleans, but he asked if he could keep texting me until then. I said yes.” I’m ecstatic, bouncing in my chair, but Elias is still looking muted. “Thanks for helping me, Elias.” I squeeze his arm. “Breakfast is on me. And lunch later, too, if you want. Wanna do something in the meantime? Walk through Prospect Park? The zoo? Botanical Garden? Brooklyn Museum? Wanna text Leo?”
A tiny smile cracks out of his carved face. “I would really love a nap in the grass in the park.”
“Didn’t get that much sleep, huh?” I wink at him, turning on the cheese, elbowing him in the ribs, trying to keep the smile momentum going. “Let’s stop at home so I can grab a blanket and a book.”
It’s the perfect September day, a rare humidity-free one in Brooklyn, seventy-five degrees, sporadic clouds providing shady punctuations to our walk over.
We argue as soon as we step foot in the park about which direction to head. To the main lawn in the northern tip ( too crowded ), towards the Picnic House ( if we need the bathroom ), towards the Dog Beach ( but they’re so cute/but we could contract Giardia ). We end up walking quite a ways, meandering through the carved pathways that cut through the trees, and end up somewhere near the lake in the southernmost part of the park. We argue next about where to put the blanket down: sun or shade. I get sunburned if I even think about the sun, but Elias’s naturally tan skin embraces it like a dear friend. We compromised by finding a massive weeping willow. We sat at the edge of its shadow, so that I could sit in the shade and read, and he could nap in the sun.
I look over at where Elias is sleeping, his skin illuminated gold. The sun emphasizes the sharp features of his face, the strong lines bright, the hollows carved out and hidden in shadow. The harshness of the angles at odds with the softness of his full mouth, a mouth meant for smiling, corners permanently tipped up and ready to charm your pants off.
I remember a time when his face was much softer. Those were the times he would hide around the corner so he could trip me on my walk into the den, or when he would shove me into the pool. The time he gave me a black eye by throwing a football in my face, expecting me to catch it. The time he cried with panic after doing so, running to get me a bag of frozen corn from the kitchen. The time the girl he was seeing in high school called me a bitch, and he broke up with her in under fifteen minutes. I’ve seen this face run the gamut of most of the emotions known to man. I’ve seen it hold horror, mischief, grief, glee, rage, anxiety. Slack with ecstasy is another one I can add to the list now, after Bathroom Incident.
I’m really lucky, I think, to know someone so well, like the back of my hand. I notice new lines near his eyes. I consider myself incredibly lucky to be able to watch the crow’s feet grow in someone’s, anyone’s eyes. To be able to trust someone, with my life , to know that someone will always have my back, no matter how fucking insane we drive one another. But, in a way that’s a bit different than a sibling, because you don’t have much of a choice with a big brother. Of course your big brother is going to protect you, look out for you; you’re his little sister. But with Elias, it’s as if I’ve been chosen, deemed worthy, but in a way that’s come as naturally as breathing, because he’s always been there.
As if he can hear me thinking, his eyes open slowly, the green of them unfocused yet bright and glowing. His eyes find mine immediately, growing warm when they exit dreamland and focus on me. A soft smile, small like he doesn’t know he’s doing it, takes over his face. I have the inexplicable urge to touch it with my hand.
“Hey, sleepyhead. That was a good nap,” I say to him instead.
“How long was I out for?” Elias asks in a hoarse, wake-uppy voice.
“Maybe an hour.” I maneuver myself so I can lay my head on his belly, which feels like a ridged flesh table. Our bodies make a capital “T” as we both look up at the leaves of the tree rustling in the slight breeze. He runs his fingers through my hair as my head rises and falls with his breaths. I feel like a contented cat.
We lay in companionable silence for a while.
“What did you do while I was out?” he murmurs, still sounding on the verge of sleep, still combing my hair with his fingers.
“Read a little. Thought about all the work I need to do tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” he says, and I can hear the frown in his voice.
“You know that Sundays are my grading and planning days.”
“There have only been two days of school. What the hell do you need to grade?”
“I want to read their ‘Getting to Know Me’ essays. Also, I need to get the sub plans ready for the day we’ll be gone. Don’t you need to do the same thing?”
He hums noncommittally.
An idea strikes me. I sit up and look down at him.
“Elias. I wanna pay you back for what you’re doing for me. What if…” I cut my eyes to the side, thinking. “You’re coaching me in like, dating or whatever. What if I coached you for teaching?”
His previously relaxed face pulls into one of annoyance. “What makes you think I need teaching help? And what makes you think I want to be good at it? I don’t even want to be a teacher.”
“Come on, Elias. You told me Lina was on your case last year, when Oliver was still around. You consistently tell me that all you want to do is just have the gym be a free for all.”
“And?”
“Think about the kids, Elias. What did half my class do in the gym with you yesterday? What did Sean do, my two hundred pound student?”
“He sat in the corner,” he mumbles.
“And what should someone like Sean really be doing? What all eight-year-olds need to be doing?” I push him.
“Moving,” he grumbles.
“I can help you with that.” I’m getting excited. I live for this stuff. “We can start small, with just my class. You only see them twice a week.”
He watches me for a long moment. I can practically hear him thinking. He looks away and shakes his head, as if he’s annoyed with himself.
“Come on, Elias! It’ll make you feel better about teaching, too. I promise. It’ll be good.”
He sighs. “Fine. But just for your class.”
I squeal.
“But I’m not working Sundays, ever.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts’. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine.”
Elias shifts over on the blanket so that his body is entirely in the shade. He then pats his stomach, indicating that I should lie back down.
We both fall asleep under the tree this time, the warm September breeze blowing on our faces.
“Hey, Auntie Pam,” I grin over Elias’s shoulder.
Elias’s mom’s disembodied face squeals on his phone. “Meems! How are you doing? I miss seeing you! We’ve gone from every day over the summer to nothing at all.”
I jump over the back of the couch and wedge my body in between the cushions and where Elias sits. My chest curves around the warmth of his broad back, and I rest my chin on his shoulder so she can see both of our faces. I feel like a lizard sunning itself on a rock. “I miss seeing you guys, too. I miss Elaborate Lunches.”
At the beach house my family shares with Elias’s family, Auntie Pam and Uncle Mike, Elias’s parents, would announce on random days of the week that it was time for an “elaborate lunch”. They would ring an actual bell indicating its commencement. Charcuterie and cheese boards with seven different cheeses, four different meats, homemade paté, figs, grapes. Actual pieces of honeycomb. Oysters with homemade champagne mignonette. The rest of the bottle of champagne. An extra bottle of champagne. It was fucking awesome.
“We didn’t have Elaborate Lunch when I was there,” Elias frowns.
“We did,” I tell him, so close to his ear that I see the goosebumps rise on his neck.
“You were busy,” his mom adds on.
“What was I doing?”
“More like who were you doing,” I mutter, for his ears only.
“I think you were exercising,” Auntie Pam says, unaware.
“Exercising your hip flexors,” I mutter into his ear again.
Elias turns, picks up my body, and deposits it off the couch. He still makes sure I don’t hit my head on the coffee table on the way down.
“Meems and I are going to New Orleans this week for work,” Elias tells his mom.
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Does that mean Meems is going to do all the work and you’re going to do all the New Orleans?” she asks him.
“Yep,” Elias responds.
“Nope,” I say from the ground next to his feet, popping my p the same way. “Elias is going to be an active and engaged member of our community.” I stand up and squeeze my body into its previous location, feeling squished and cozy. Elias allows it.
“If anyone’s going to get him to do it, it’s you, Meems,” Auntie Pam says warmly.
“Thank you, Auntie Pam,” I say. “But he’s going to take accountability and do it himself.”
Elias sits further back on the couch, crushing me into the cushions so I can barely breathe.
“Good to hear,” she says. “All right. Just wanted to say hi, Elias. It was nice to see you for a sec, Meems. I’ll talk to you both soon.”
“Yep,” Elias says.
I can’t speak, because all the air has been pressed from my lungs.
“Oh wait, I’m going to bake soon. What would you two like me to send you?”
“All the brownies,” Elias says immediately.
I manage to shove Elias off of me for two seconds, the span of time it takes for me to take a breath and spit out, “blondie and oatmeal cookie, please,” before he leans back and squashes me again.
“All right. Expect it in the mail soon. I hope it doesn’t get stolen from your lobby like the last batch. Love you both!” she says.
“Love you, Mom.”
I mouth the words.
Elias hangs up and leans further back on the couch. I can feel my eyeballs popping out of their sockets. He pulls up his web browser and types in “best places to eat new orleans”.
I don’t move, because I can’t and because I really like it here.