“What?” I ask, jiggling my keys in the lock.
“Why don’t you want to paint the mural?” He asks me.
“I don’t know you,” I reply flatly, swinging my door open.
“You don’t need to know me to take a job.” Jae laughs. “I thought just maybe—maybe the reason you don’t want to take the job is because youdowant to get to know me.”
“Someone’s cocky,” I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t for me.”
“Look, Riley—” Jae leans on the door frame while I kick off my shoes and Lily comes running. “We both know that you’re lonely?—”
“We both know whatexactly?” I ask.
“You’re lonely.” Jae repeats.
I cock my head at him. I am lonely, but that’s not his prerogative to decide.
“How is that any of your business?”
“Hear me out,” Jae says as Lily sniffs his feet excitedly. “Stuart tells me you order food delivery five days a week and you hardly leave your apartment except to walk your dog, who, by the way, is super cute, anyway—paint my mural and I’ll cook you dinners for five days out of the week for a month.”
“Why wouldyoudo that?” I ask, considering his offer.
“Consider it a neighborly gesture. Paint during the day, and stay for dinner. The kitchen is completely functional. Plus, I need someone to try our new menu items.”
“Why wouldIdo that?” I ask.
“Delivery can’t be cheap?” He supplies. “You look like you might get scurvy any day now, too,”
How can I make this worth my time? I look Jae up and down. White sneakers, black jeans, white button up shirt. Floppy black hair, dark eyes with a smattering of freckles across his face. An upturned grin that is unwavering. Good looks and good style. He looks like he knows how to date. I bet he’ll have suitors crawling all over his apartment in no time.
“It sounds like you need me more than I need you,” I say.
“Geez, all right, I get it—” He holds his hands up, his face falling and begins to walk away.
“Wait!” I shout. “Hold on,”
I flash back to how I met Grant.
We both went to the School of Visual Arts; me for painting, Grant for interior design. We were both first-year students enrolled in art history. He sat behind me and would consistently ask me for a pencil, every class.
I thought it was hilarious—what art student, especially one with so much drawing, would forget a pencil? Turns out it was just an excuse to talk to me. I knew I wanted to marry him themoment he kissed me in the stairwell after class the third week of the semester. He was always much braver than I was.
I was a cold February day, a stubbed toe in the dark, but Grant was the warm jacket hugging you tight and the Band-Aid waiting for you in the kitchen. Where I was introverted and quiet, Grant was inviting and charismatic. I adored the large, loud family that came with him, especially theTres Lechescake he made for my birthday.
He fit me in ways I didn’t know existed. Being in his presence never exhausted me, and he never grew tired of my quirks. He was sweeter than the honey I put in my tea. I was fulfilled before I even knew I was missing anything.
After he died, his family and I remained close at first. But eventually, people move on in ways they don’t think they will. Someone gets a new job. They move houses. New nieces and nephews are born. His sister, Valentina, and I still talk sometimes, but nothing like how it used to be.
Grant was buried back near his family home in Rio Grande, Texas. He had moved to New York for school and stayed to be with me. He had always told me his home was where I was, and I wanted to stay in New York. So we stayed, even when he got sick. He only ever wanted to make me happy. And I was so truly happy.
When he died, I felt robbed of my future. All of it was gone. Grant had planned it for me. I was just along for the ride.
Now, I would plan it on my own.
And I would start with a date.
“Teach me how to go on a date.” I say.
