Is he a lawyer? He should be a lawyer. He’s always at the ready with a quip.
“Well, be that as it may, I’m here now.”
“I can see that,” he says, and the look he gives me up and down makes me blush.
I can never tell if this pseudo-flirtatious thing he does with me is an attempt to throw me off. He obviously doesn’t like me, based on all his belligerence, which seems aimed only in my direction. But whether he throws in those kinds of innuendo to make me step back or just because he enjoys it is impossible to say. After all, I don’t really know him. And on top of that, the strange kindness toward Kwan last week also refuses to stop buzzing in my periphery, like a gnat you can’t quite swat away.
The song changes, and I can hear the early strums of War’s “Why Can’t We Be Friends?” come over the speaker. I see Eli’s eyes light up and immediately know where he’s going to take this.
“No,” I say preemptively.
There’s that laugh again. Head thrown back, endless amusement, cheeky desire. He grabs my hand. “Oh yes indeed, neighbor,” he says with a chuckle. “Everyone, let’s dance!” he shouts at the gathered crowd, and everyone whoops and joins right in. I shouldn’t have expected anything better of my neighbors. They’re all a bunch of old hippies.
He starts to put his other hand around my waist but stops and catches my eye. I’m not expecting to see that the look there isn’t antagonistic. It’s asking permission, his eyebrows raised in a question, as though behind his bravado lies the kind of man who’s conscientious.The kind of man who lets a disappointed neighbor win at cards without being obvious. The kind of man who isn’t going to put his hands on a woman, even in a friendly-dancing kind of way, without her permission. That hidden Eli, the one I’ve caught glimpses of but never seen outright, needles me forward. I’m surprised by it.
So surprised that, against all my other judgment, I find myself giving him just the slightest nod.
He takes the win and swings me around until I’m unable to not start smiling at the absurdity of the scene. Gladys and another elderly neighbor are twirling together, while Tom leads Meryl in a much more formal box step of some kind. Kwan, Hearn, and a few other neighbors stand on the side, clapping and dancing. I’m a little worried that one of them—a petite woman in her eighties named Aretha, who, according to old “glory days” photos she consistently insists on showing me, has had the same bob haircut for the last fifty years—is going to dislocate her shoulder with how much she’s shaking her arms above her head.
They’re all cheering Eli on. It’s impossible not to note the affection in some of their voices and let myself give in to it.
“Give her a proper dip,” Kwan shouts, and I can see from the impish grin that takes over Eli’s face that I’m in trouble.
But before I can object, he’s already swooped me down, and the sensation is unnerving. I’m dipped so far I’m practically upside down, but his hand is across my back, steady and unyielding. There’s no fear of falling, but the way he’s holding me is making my heart race. He pulls me back up and wraps his arm around me more tightly, the jaunty beat of the song keeping us in a ridiculous pace but swathed with gaiety.
I’m out of breath and laughing with more abandon than I could’ve expected from a slapdash rooftop soiree. I keep expecting to hear myself tell him to stop, but that would be a version of me that hasn’t apparently lost the ability to speak. This version—this one that Eli’s spinning with ease—is evidently letting go and succumbing to whatever this night is turning into.
“You know Esther would’veinsistedon more than one dip!” I hear Aretha shout, and I see the wistful look that passes Eli’s face at the mention of his grandmother. I guess Meryl, Tom, and Kwanweren’tthe best sources of information, since I see a few other neighbors nod along at the memories of their friend Esther, clearly inextricably linked to this man who I saw as a newfangled interloper.
Before I can even look back at him, he’s succumbed to the crowd and dipped me down again, even lower this time, to the delight and whoops of everyone around us.
I look up, and I’m surprised by how much my heart pangs at the boyish joy on his face. He’s had me physically on guard since the minute we met in person, but there’s something vulnerable and intimate that’s especially jarring in this moment.
I keep wanting to stick to my dislike of him—I’ve seen glimmers of good, but those are fleeting. The largest pieces of him are wildly unpleasant. Those overt slices that I saw in therapy, and then almost everything I saw after, confirmed my initial judgment of a person too self-satisfied to give leeway to anyone else.
And yet.
The music is swirling, asking,Why can’t we be friends?and those nagging inklings, that poker face, make me see him differently for a moment. Could I have seen only the worst sides of him? Did I only see him in a (woefully ineffective) defensive crouch on the verge of losing his girlfriend? Did I later see him hiding complex grief from the loss of a beloved grandmother?
He’s watching me now too—back arched, cheeks flushed, hair wild and tumbling toward the ground—and I wonder if he’s having the same thoughts about me. I wonder if his impression of me as the dour executioner of his relationship and as the busybody neighbor is the only slicehe’sgotten. Our eyes are locked and asking the same questions.
There’s something so tactile about dancing, as though the speed of my pulse is coursing into him, and whatever our eyes are seeing iscombined with whatever we’re feeling, too, as though my insides have turned to liquid without my permission.
He lifts me back up to applause—I’m not sure when it even began. His hand slowly leaves my back, and I can feel its absence almost as strong as when it was holding me up against gravity.
I clear my throat, trying to figure out how to break this eye contact that’s unmooring me.
He pulls out his phone from his pocket, a nervous habit that showcases only an empty screen.
“Somewhere you need to be other than your own party?” I ask.
I’m not sure I like the sharpness embedded in my tone. Do I always sound like this when I’m talking to him?
He seems distracted for a moment but then shakes his head. “No, um ... no, sorry.”
“Oh ...” I’m not used to him being flustered, and it’s rubbing off on me. “Okay, well. I’ve gotta get back. George, probably,” I stammer. I see his brow furrow. “My dog. George. He’s the anxious one from the banging. He’s probably wondering where I am. Thanks for inviting me.”
“I invited everyone,” he says, but the same bite isn’t there. A little smile emerges, as though he’s waiting for my retort.
