Chapter 8
IT SUCKS THAT I can’t just pop into a bar with Patrice after that Lockhart & Cahill meeting to toast to a successful presentation and a happy client.
That’s what I’m used to doing back home.
Instead, we each go our own way after work, squeezing out a reluctant have a good night to each other.
All because neither of us realized we were competing for the same job.
I heave a deep sigh on my way to the subway station. There’s got to be a way for us to be cordial at least. Bribing Patrice with coffee was clearly not the way to go—oat milk and regular milk lattes have both been a bust so far.
It’s rush hour and the subway is packed, as usual. I grip on tightly to the stainless steel pole as the train starts to move.
There’s a supermarket between the subway stop and my place, so I decide to shop for groceries for the first time since arriving in New York.
I’ve had my fill of takeout over the past few days and my body is desperate for food that hasn’t been marinating in buckets of salt.
I’ve decided to make a quiche with whole wheat flour and a ton of vegetables.
That should keep me fed for multiple days and it’s also just really delicious.
Passing by the cereal boxes, I make my way to the produce department where I load up my basket with zucchini, bell peppers, and leeks.
I marvel at the wealth of products here compared to what’s available in Dutch supermarkets: from wasabi pastes, ginger shots, and cactus pads to Heinz ketchup and Skippy peanut butter.
I quickly grab a box of cereal in case I get tired of bagels.
And some Ben & Jerry’s. As I wander down the snack aisle, I decide that chips wouldn’t be the worst thing to have lying around.
My dinner’s going to be super healthy, so why not enjoy a salty snack later tonight?
And maybe a bottle of wine, so I can solo-toast to a successful day. Ooh, and . . .
By the time I’ve reached my building with a load of four grocery bags instead of the one I had planned, I can’t seem to find my key.
I set down the bags I’ve been dragging along for four blocks.
Admittedly, I did take a few breaks along the way and maaaybe I made some headway on that bag of chips during my stops, but it was still a long walk.
Digging through my pockets, I let out a sigh of relief when my fingers finally touch metal.
I unlock the door, haul my cargo inside and slowly look up at the staircase in front of me.
Crap.
I kind of forgot about the five flights of stairs I still need to climb—all while lugging these heavy bags—before I finally get to my place.
A few moments later, the main door opens, then latches again behind me.
With a sense of relief, I look back over my shoulder, hoping it’s someone I might be able to tempt into herniating a disc for me.
Alas. Instead, I find myself staring into my noisy neighbour’s gorgeous eyes.
He looks incredible in a deep-V black tee and a roughed up denim jacket.
Tucking his keys back into his pocket, he looks amused at the sight of the four bags I’m hoisting.
Throwing a party, I see, he concludes, taking a few steps toward me to study the contents of my grocery haul. His face is framed by tousled hair, windswept by a breeze that suggests it won’t be long before leaves start falling from the trees. I’m invited, right?
There’s no party. I roll my eyes in annoyance.
Wait. You’re telling me you’re going to eat all of that by yourself? he asks, sounding stunned. His eyes dart from my head to my toes and back. Will it all . . . fit?
Insulted, I plant my hands into my waist and glare at him. It absolutely will, I reply. And I’m obviously not planning to eat it all in one go.
My neighbour goes silent as he stares at me, eyebrows raised.
The infuriating urge to somehow fill this silence makes its way from my brain to my lips. My dad always said I’m a black hole, I blurt out, unable to stop myself.
Dude.
Because everything I put in my mouth just disappears into thin air. He used to say the pantry was stocked up for ten kids instead of two. Weirdly enough, it never triggered any growth spurts or weight gain. I stare at the shopping bags. My brother likes to compare me to a cow, I add.
He lets out a laugh and gives me a slightly puzzled look. And that didn’t bother you? he wonders.
Not really. I guess it kind of makes sense, I allow with a shrug. Cows have four stomachs, which is a lot of room for food.
They do? He seems caught off guard by that piece of trivia. I had no idea.
I nod in excitement, glad to have finally sparked some kind of conversation, even though it means delving into the bovine digestive system.
The second stomach is called the reticulum, which is such a funny word, I continue undeterred. And the third one—
I’m cut off by my audience of one. Can I help you carry those up? He nods toward the bags, clearly uninterested in finding out exactly how grass gets transformed into massive piles of crap. You know the elevator isn’t working, right?
I give him an astonished look. I would have been much less stunned to hear that offer coming from my walker-using 80-year-old neighbour down the hall than from my former co-passenger.
Um . . . Yes. I’d like that, I reply.
He nods and picks up the two heaviest bags. His knuckles go white as he hauls my groceries up the stairs, his muscles flexed to their limit.
Jesus, what’s in here? Bricks?
Shit. Are you okay? We can trade bags if you want. These ones aren’t as heavy.
My neighbour glances back at me, shutting me up with the insulted expression on his face.
I’m surprised you didn’t topple over carrying these, he says. These two alone probably weigh as much as you do.
It’s all just regular groceries, I’ll have you know. Milk, wine, ice cream, . . .
Okay, that explains it. Good thing I have physio coverage included in my health plan.
How un-American of you, I chuckle.
Hilarious. He gives me a dopey look. My dad’s a physician. He’s forever going on about the importance of great health insurance.
When we’ve made it to the top floor—bypassing the crumbling step on the way—he flomps the bags down by my door with an overdramatic humph.
Thank you, I say, turning my key in the lock. I’m Emma, by the way. I reach out my hand.
He stares at it for a few beats, but then glides his hand into mine. The pads of his index and middle fingers feel a bit rough from all that guitar playing. For a little too long, he holds my hand in his, giving me a look I can’t quite read.
Rudy, he finally replies, shaking my hand before he turns toward his own apartment.
Rudy. Not a name I would have expected for a musician who’s probably broken countless hearts and looks like he’s not afraid of the odd intoxicated motorcycle ride.
Rudy walks into his place and right before the door closes behind him, I hear him call out, Good luck with dinner!
I’ve cubed the zucchini, cut the leeks into little rings and julienned the bell peppers. The eggs are whisked and seasoned with salt and pepper, and the butter is resting at room temperature. But where’s the flour? Did I seriously forget to buy flour?!
Taking stock of my groceries—again—I reach the painful conclusion that I emptied pretty much the entire store and still managed to forget one essential ingredient. I swear under my breath. I don’t want to go all the way back to the store.
I look over at the mugs in my kitchen cabinet.
It’s kind of an American thing to pop by your neighbour’s place for a cup of flour or sugar, right?
I hesitate. Maybe Rudy will lend me some flour.
Or give me some flour, I guess. I doubt anyone in the history of this lending scheme has ever returned a cup of flour before.
With a deep sigh, I grab a mug from the shelf and head over to Rudy’s door.
Before I can second-guess myself, I knock twice.
The wood is worn and looks like it would collapse right out of the doorframe if I knocked any harder.
I briefly wonder if he’s not home, until I hear muffled noises coming from inside and his door swings open.
Rudy appears in the doorframe, hair damp and wearing nothing but a towel.
He doesn’t have gym guy abs exactly, but he’s subtly toned— like he enjoys moving his body and leads an active life, but not like his daily routine involves juggling baby hippos.
There’s a line of words tattooed on his chest in small, swirly script, but I’m a little too far away from him to read what it says.
Emma? He seems surprised, like he was expecting someone else.
Yes. Hi, I say, sounding awkward, not at all helped by his barely clothed state. Okay, um . . . Here’s the story . . .
Rudy gives me a questioning look. I’m not used to feeling tongue-tied. I almost always have something ready to blurt out.
I forgot to buy flour, I finally admit in embarrassment.
The corners of Rudy’s mouth lift up before he bursts into a thunderous laugh. You forgot flour? he asks, still mid-chuckle. You bought out half the store, but you forgot flour?
Yep, I answer, shamefaced. So, uh . . . I show him my mug. I was hoping you might . . . lend me some?
Rudy lets out another laugh. I’m not necessarily thrilled about the circumstances that led up to his laughing fit, but I also can’t deny that laughter looks good on him. His face is aglow and there’s a twinkle in his gorgeous eyes.
You live in New York, he says, once he’s all chuckled out. Not in the suburbs in the 70s.
Oh. Sorry, I sulk. I thought maybe you . . .
What I’m trying to say is . . . The last time I ate a home-cooked meal was last Christmas at my parents’ place. You know you can just order food, right? He’s looking at me like I’m a child just finding out you can use a calculator for tricky math problems.
Of course I do, I argue. But I wanted to cook for a change. You know, with vegetables and stuff.
Ah, but you can just as easily order things with vegetables, you know, he explains patiently as he cinches his towel a little.
I catch a glimpse of the V shape pointing down from his hips.
It’s New York. You can get pretty much any dish from any corner of the world delivered right to your door . . .
He cocks his head to one side and raises his eyebrows. And then I realize I’ve been silent for ten seconds, all distracted by the sneak peek of my neighbour’s nethers.
Clearing my throat, I flash my eyes back up to his face. Okay . . . Well. Thanks for the tip, I mumble.
Sure thing.
Once I’m in my pyjamas and tucked into bed, I start scrolling my Facebook feed.
I leave a like on a picture of my friends enjoying dinner at our favourite Italian restaurant.
Without me. I feel a pang of disappointment.
I would have loved to be sitting at that table with them, clinking my pinot grigio and ordering a plate of the divine gnocchi instead of eating the omelette I ended up cooking tonight.
I scroll on until I reach a picture that makes me gasp.
A picture of him—Fedde. The man who hurt me so deeply that I can still barely stand to look at his face.
Not because I want him back, not because I’m still in love with him, but simply because he reminds me of one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made.
He has a thick head of blonde hair, quite unlike many other men his age. His grey eyes sparkle with pride as he holds his wife’s pregnant belly. She’s wearing a matching expression on her face. She seems lovely, but I still ducked away both times I ran into her. I was ashamed. Deeply ashamed.
Five months until we get to wrap you in our arms, the caption reads.
I bite my lip as I stare at the twinkling brown eyes of the mother-to-be.
I navigate over to Fedde’s profile. With my thumb hovering over the ‘Unfriend’ option, I hesitate for a moment before clicking.
My heart feels heavy as his friends-only pictures disappear from his profile.
Just when I’m about to roll over and go to sleep, I hear noises coming from my neighbour’s apartment.
And he’s not alone. Loud giggles and kissing sounds pierce their way through the thin wall between our apartments.
Wide-eyed, I stare at the wall, desperately hoping this won’t take too long.
Sure, he’s following through on his promise not to play loud music at night, but I might actually prefer that to all the panting, creaking, and squeaking currently making its way through the flimsy partition between us.
I flop back with a frustrated groan. This is bugging me so much more than it should and I have no idea why.
He’s an attractive guy in his twenties who clearly has no trouble catching women’s attention.
And, as I’m starting to notice, he seems to have the stamina of an Olympic athlete.
It’s something his playmate very much appreciates—if her vocal endorsements are anything to go by.
The minutes crawl by and I shift onto my side so I can press my pillow into my ear for the millionth time.
I’m seriously contemplating ringing his doorbell when the groans and creaks finally wrap up.
Relieved, I let out a sigh, remove the pillow from my ear, and turn to stare up at the ceiling once more.
I’m wide awake.