Chapter 22
In the days after Hal’s lecture about needing to make rent, I take on more shifts at Kora’s. It doesn’t help much because
the more I work, the more I go out and blow my paychecks on drinks and gummies. Nothing breeds recklessness quite like restraint.
One night, the three of us head out to the House of Yes. There’s nothing dramatic, no notable difference, but the magic is
gone. The whole thing feels cheap and overdone, a high school prom with a poodle updo and too much eyeliner.
The next day’s hangover is extra bad. Everything throbs. The strobe lights are still there, blinking like red traffic lights
at a four-way stop. I’m late to Kora’s, barely making it there at all.
Someone taps my shoulder, awakening me before I realize I’ve fallen asleep standing up, leaning against the counter.
“EJ,” a voice says.
My eyes blink open. It’s Chris, standing right in front of me, dressed in a white button-down and a blazer. The edges of him
are too crisp to be a hallucination, but I still reach out and touch his arm to be sure. He’s solid, the linen of his shirt
too stiff, in need of fabric softener.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask. There’s no time to organize my emotions, delineate which section needs to go where. Everything
spills out, spills in.
He tells me that he went to my apartment but Hal said I was over here. “Did you get my letter?” he asks.
“What letter?” I fiddle at the cash register, gripping the paper bills just for something to hold, something to tear.
His forehead creases. “I wrote you an apology. Thought I got the address right . . .”
“Oh, that letter,” I say, as if only just remembering. “Yeah, I got it.”
Hands in his pockets, feet shuffling in place, he waits for me to continue.
He looks so earnest and awkward that I want to put it all behind us and forgive him, but of course I can’t do that. “Some
might say that letters are a coward’s best friend,” I say.
He flinches at that. It doesn’t feel as rewarding as I’d hoped. “I thought it was the most respectful way to get in touch,”
he says. “To give you space.”
“You mean so I couldn’t yell at you through the phone or send an angry text right back?” I clarify. “You were the one who wanted the space, Chris.”
“Maybe that’s true. Look, I’m sorry for how I reacted.” There’s a glitch in his voice, a rasp that’s not usually there. “I
just have a hard time talking about Luke, and I felt like I was being backed into a corner.”
The words ripple through me like a fan, cooling my temper a few degrees. “I was really just trying to help you,” I say.
“I know you were. In your own Emily Jane sort of way.”
I’m pleased he’s back to calling me by my full name. My smile breaks out from behind bars. I whip us up a couple of almond
milk lattes, though seeing Chris is a shot of caffeine in itself.
“Best coffee in the city,” Chris says, sipping from the cardboard cup. “Going to tell everyone at work about it.”
“Please don’t,” I say. “The last thing Bushwick needs is a Wall Street invasion. Rent is going up enough as it is.”
My tone might reveal more about my money woes than I intend, because Chris asks if I can watch Arnie this weekend.
“I’ll have to check my calendar and get back to you,” I say.
“Come on, we both know you don’t keep a calendar,” he replies with a warm smile.
It’s a delicious feeling, how well he knows me and how I might not have to say goodbye to him after all.
“Aren’t you working today?” I say, realizing that it’s the middle of a weekday.
His pasty cheeks color like my words have given them a good pinch. “I left the office early,” he says, talking into his coffee
cup. “Got all my meetings done and figured ducking out early wouldn’t do too much harm.”
“You left work early?” This is a big deal in Chris’s world.
“Am I a rebel yet?” he asks, lips twitching.
“You’d have to unbutton your shirt, for starters.”
To my surprise, he does. Just the top button, but it’s something.
“Better,” I say. “I’m not hitting on you, by the way. I’m just protecting you against getting suffocated by your own shirt.
The risk looked pretty high.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Chris says. “I know you’d be the last person in the world to hit on me.”
“Right,” I say hastily, mopping up a puddle of coffee I’ve spilled on the counter. “Obviously.”
“Come by Thursday evening?” Chris says. “Arnold will be excited. You’re his favorite babysitter.”
The unspoken comparison to Olivia hits me like victory. “Well, you have a very intelligent dog.”
I expect to get another smile out of him, but his face catches in a tangled net of emotions. “What is it?” I ask.
“Arnold’s not really my dog.” Chris glances up, then down again. “He was Luke’s.”
I let the statement sink in slowly. Suddenly it all makes sense. Why Chris is so overprotective about Arnie. Why Arnie gets so out of sorts when left alone. The little pup must have abandonment issues.
Knowing this, the fact that Chris entrusts Arnie to my care means even more. It makes me want to scoop Chris into a big embrace,
and Arnie too. Usually I’d fight it, but this time I walk out from behind the counter and let myself hug Chris. It feels a
lot like being a kid again and giving in to sleep on New Year’s Eve after hours of trying so hard to stay awake until midnight.
Chris hugs back, just briefly, before pulling away. “No need to get all sentimental,” he says. There’s a fissure in his voice,
like it wants to crack but can’t.
“I’m not getting sentimental,” I say. My eyes are dry but my nose is stuffy. “It’s just seasonal allergies. Fall is on the
way.”
“Right,” Chris says, smiling at me in that way he does that reaches down into my toes, making them curl, making them dance.
“Just allergies.”