“I just feel like we used to be more adventurous,” I say. “Maybe we’ve gotten too comfortable.”
“No. Actually you’renotcomfortable. That’s your problem. If you felt comfortable, you’d just ask him to ti—”
“Hey!” I exclaim, racing in front of her. “Let’s not name sex acts in the hallway. My mom’s neighbors have amazing hearing.”
“If you felt comfortable,” she repeats, “you’d have thisconversation with him, not me.” Romily opens the door to the closet that hides the trash and recycling chutes and we’re hit with the rotten-sweet smell of garbage fumes. “You know whoiscomfortable? Hal. He gets all the emotional benefits of having a girlfriend without the commitment.”
“No. See, you make these pronouncements like you know the objective truth. Relationships have nuance. They can’t all be boiled down to a bullet point summary of a research survey.” We quickly toss everything down the chutes without inhaling the air in the closet. “And I don’t want a committed relationship right now. I’m living in purgatory.”
I feel like one of the distraught women from her slide deck.
“You’re trending toward snuggle buddies,” Romily says as we walk back down the hall, letting the closet door slam. “Pretty soon he’ll be treating you like a stuffed animal.”
“What makes you such an expert if you’ve given up dating and relationships?”
“I haven’t given up, I’ve freed myself. It’s wonderful. My posture has never been better.” She stops in front of my mom’s door. “And I know these things because I research and observe. Knowledge is power.”
I reach to turn the doorknob. It doesn’t budge.
“Shit.” I jiggle it, as if that will help. “Perry must’ve set it to automatically lock again.”
“You don’t have your keys?”
“To take the trash thirty feet down the hallway? It’s not supposed to lock!”
“When will your mom be back?” Romily asks.
“I dunno, late? They’re seeing a show at the Bluestone.”
“Maintenance?”
“It’s after hours.” I stare at the beige door. A bead of sweat forms at my hairline. “And my phone’s inside the apartment.”
“Mine, too. And my car keys.”
Two minutes later, I’m trying to pick the lock with Romily’s bobby pin by jamming one end into the bottom of the lock and wiggling it with absolutely no success. I have a vague memory of my dad teaching me this at some point—he sometimes had to open lockboxes and safes for clients whose relatives died without giving them the keys. Something about moving the pins and listening for soft clicks?
Why didn’t I pay attention to what was probably the handiest life skill my father showedme?
I press my ear against the door, trying to convince myself that I have, indeed, heard a “soft click.” But mostly I hear a couple of pairs of footsteps echo down the breezeway. Terrific. Probably one of the old ladies who filed a noise complaint about me last year.
I give the pin another firm jab into the lock.
“Fuck!Ow.” I shake my pinched finger. I’m sweating in the muggy evening air.
I make another attempt at forcing the pin deeper into the lock as I hear the footsteps slow to a stop behindme.
“It works better with two bobby pins.”
“What does? Dad, what works better?”
I know these voices now. I don’t even need to lookup.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Romily says. “She lives here.”
“Oh, I know,” Nick says, the slightest chuckle in his voice. “You’re locked out?”
“My mom and Perry went to a show.” I look up at him, a sudden flash of hope popping into my brain. “I don’t suppose my mom already gave you a spare key because you’re so handy and responsible?”
