Oh my god, George.
He’s going to have a meltdown over my disappearance. He’ll be all alone and, yes, okay, I always have food sitting out for him, because he’s the pickiest dog on earth and likes to graze like the weirdo that he is, but I didn’t even take him out tonight! He’s not going to understand what’s happening. He’s going to think I abandoned him. At some point he’s going to start barking and never stop, and no one is going to realize my door is unlocked, and no one else has my key except our super, Vardan, and he doesn’t even live in our building, and now it’s too late for anyone to even call him since he’s already gone home for the day, and—
Eli grabs my shoulders, and it shocks me out of the panic I’m spiraling into.
“Don’t go there,” he says quietly, his face close enough to mine now that I can make out the flecks of honey in his otherwise brown eyes.
“Go where?” I ask suspiciously.
“Panicking.”
“I’m not panicking,” I lie.
“What’s got you the most worried?” he says, in an oddly calm voice. His hands are still gripping my shoulders, and I have to admit it’s helping a little.
“My dog,” I admit. “He was already freaking out”—I stop myself from sayingbecause of your hammering, because it strikes me as extremely unhelpful in this particular moment—“and I haven’t even taken him out tonight, so he’s going to be uncomfortable and confused.”
“He’ll be okay, though,” he says, much more soothing and matter of fact than I would’ve expected from him. It reminds me of his deft handling of Kwan through poker; he’s showing a sliver of kindness without being patronizing or even acknowledging that he’s helping.
It’s strange to see this side of him again, and even stranger that it’s in my direction. I’m sort of surprised he hasn’t continued berating me. As much as I’ll probably never admit it, this situation is obviously my doing, even if I didn’t mean to get us into it. I’m never this rash; something about Elimakesme rash. But it’s still my fault that I stormed up here without any keys or phone and then slammed the door in my worked-up state.
“He’s going to be so scared,” I say quietly.
“I know,” he sighs. “But he’s not going to starve, and the worst thing that’ll happen is you’ll have to clean up a bit of mess whenever you get home.”
I don’t love that phrase—“whenever you get home.” At some pointsomeonewill come searching for us, right?
“Did you tell anyone you were on the way to shout at me?” he asks, verbalizing my own thoughts but with a touch of amusement in his voice.
It hits me. “Yes! I told my best friend, Dane,” I cheer. “Or, well,shesuggested I come shout at you, actually,” I emphasize, as though another person encouraging me somehow lessens my own crime.
“The urban landscaper?”
“Yes.” I’m shocked he remembers that.
“So if you don’t respond, do you think she’ll come find you?”
At that my heart sinks. “Well ...” I shift on my heels, sheepish because I know what the answer is. “I suppose, at some point she’ll find it weird. But she has pool tonight, and if I don’t answer her, she’s probably just going to go to practice and not really give it another thought. Sometimes, if I don’t want to go out, I avoid texting her back. So she’s probably just going to think that’s what’s happening.”
He nods, taking it in. He keeps nodding well past the point where he should’ve understood, but I guess this situation warrants quite a bit of acceptance.
After what feels like an eternity, he turns around. Does he have a plan of action? Maybe he knows how to get us off the roof without keys? Maybe he was just messing with me and is now going to call someone?
But all those hopes are dashed when he unceremoniously plops to the ground and leans up against the planter he was building.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m sitting.”
“Yes, I can see that, butwhyare you sitting? What are we going to do?”
The sun is starting to set, and the light makes him look unfairly angular, almost ethereal, up against the backdrop of steel and brick New York City buildings behind him. But it also showcases how weary he looks. He’s got a smear of dirt across his face, and his hair is tousled. Instead of that sort of badass look I encountered when I first stormed in, he now just seems contemplative. There’s so much expression written across his face that, in combination with the light, I find myself thinking that his profile is bursting to be photographed. There’s so much life in this image in front of me. Frustration, defeat, acceptance, physicality, dirt, golden hour light, messy curls, and a shirt that sits just so while being crumpled enough to display how hard he was working.
I need to stop staring at him, so I do the only logical thing. I slump down next to him, trying to be careful with my previously-a-great-idea swishy skirt that now I’m realizing I’ll probably have to sleep in.
“I’m sorry I closed the door,” I say, because I am.
“It’s not your fault,” he murmurs, and my head whips toward him, incredulous that he’d let me off the hook so easily. He sees my stunned expression, and a small smile lightens his face. “Well, itisyour fault, but there was no way you could’ve meant to dothat. It was an honest mistake, and bad luck that we’re the only two people on the planet who can go anywhere without our phones.”
