“Time for holiday karaoke,” Ellen said, turning on music loud enough that they couldn’t hear the couple fighting next door but not so loud that the downstairs neighbors would complain.
Rae joined in on a bouncy rendition of “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” telling herself she was directing the lyrics at the Scramblettes, no one else, but she felt the lie in the lightness of her voice as she sang into the wine-bottle microphone and wondered who might see her new silk-ish pajamas.
CHAPTER TEN
LOWS TO HIGHS
“This is a Rockaway Parkway–bound L train,” the automated voice announced as the urine-and-pickle-scented subway train jolted to a violent stop, as if on a mission to send as many passengers careening into the walls as possible.
Rae managed to avoid toppling over only because she was sitting down and wedged tightly in a man-sprawler sandwich. Once the temperamental doors finally opened, Rae sped out onto the platform. Two fat rats crossed her path, scraggly tails slithering as they feasted on fast-food wrappers.
She was on her way to Dustin’s apartment in Williamsburg. He’d made a reservation at an upscale Mediterranean restaurant near Rae’s office, but she’d asked if they could do pizza at his place instead. She was too wiped out to fold a cloth napkin on her lap and yell across the table to be heard.
Rae knew the Scramblettes would disapprove. It was only the third date, and Dustin should still be courting her. But pizza on his couch was exactly what Rae wanted, and what was life at twenty-five if not an exercise in thinking for herself?
She liked the idea of coming to Brooklyn, too, and having a whole body of water between them and her office. The notion had felt less romantic when the rattling subway inexplicably stalled for fifteen minutes somewhere below the East River, but Rae now emerged from the underground into the Williamsburg night, where the air rippled rather than rushed and people shuffled, not shoved, to their own Bohemian beats on streets free of Manhattan’s garbage stench.
The nonlinear energy seeped down into her lungs and helped her breathe more deeply. She couldn’t help but slow her pace as she scoped out the scene. Even though Williamsburg was just a few subway stops away, she hadn’t been here in a long time. Somewhere along the way she’d accidentally adopted theWhy would I ever leave Manhattan?attitude pervasive among the West Village and Wall Street crowds.
The buildings were low and the sky stretched big and wide, not confined to narrow slivers like in Manhattan. She ambled past free-looking people in denim overalls and corduroy coats smoking pot and strumming ukuleles from fire escape balconies, thrift shops with plaid beanies and high-top Converse shoes in the windows, indie bookstores filled with titles Rae had never heard of, and garages refurbished into coffee shops and craft breweries. Gigantic murals added pops of primary colors to the washed-out brick-and-aluminum-panel siding of refurbished factories.
The neighborhood was an oil-and-water mix of creative and corporate types. It was no secret that the artists resented the recent gentrification that had sent rent skyrocketing and appropriated their hipster culture into a social media hashtag.
Feeling rather ashamed that she was one of the white-collar intruders, Rae pulled her coat more tightly around herself to hide her suit beneath. One day, she vowed, she’d turn her back on capitalism and join Brooklyn’s colony of creatives. She just wasn’t quite there yet.
Dustin lived on Lorimer Street, a bit farther east where Williamsburg started to get grittier, with more graffiti and abandonedwarehouses and weeds growing up through unkempt sidewalk cracks. She felt a pang of compassion for how Lorimer Street seemed a bit overlooked and unloved compared to the glossier blocks near the river. Even before she arrived, Rae dubbed Dustin’s apartment the Lorimer Loft, liking how the name rolled off her tongue.
His building was the tallest one on the street—eight stories high, modern and sleek. Rae had the feeling that the locals probably hadn’t been too happy when it was built, but she was selfishly delighted to explore such a place. There was an elevator, and though Dustin only lived on the third floor, Rae wasn’t able to pass by the elegance of elevator life, so she waited an extra three minutes for it to arrive and lift her grandly to her date. After sniffing her armpits to make sure she didn’t need to reapply deodorant, she rapped on the door of apartment 3F.
Dustin opened it and smiled. His hair was wet from the shower, and he’d changed out of his suit. Rae was again struck by his haphazard handsomeness.
“You made it to Brooklyn,” Dustin said.
“I made it to Brooklyn,” Rae echoed, critiquing herself for not thinking of a wittier reply.
They hugged in the doorway, slightly awkwardly. Rae felt a jolt of doubt. What if the second date had been a blip? What if the third date reverted to the stiffness of the first?
She took off her commuter sneakers and placed them next to Dustin’s loafers and running shoes, lined up in a row. After hanging her coat on a peg, she smoothed her black dress, unsexily corporate but at least less masculine than her usual work outfits.
The Lorimer Loft wasn’t so much a loft as it was a traditional one-bedroom apartment, but she’d already grown attached to the alliteration and decided to keep it.
The space was large, with a full-sized fridge and its very own washer and dryer. Even more than the sublime amenities, Rae was struck by the cleanliness—the floor free of crumbs and kernels, with dishes drying on a rack beside the sink.
She had new appreciation for why Ellen had purchased lavender toilet bowl cleaner in preparation for Aaron’s visit.
Dustin asked if she wanted anything to drink. Rae said she was okay, but Dustin got her water anyway, with three oblong ice cubes. They stood in the kitchen, and Rae continued to look around so she wouldn’t stare at Dustin or doodle on the condensation on her glass.
The apartment had that New York minimalistic style, and Rae craved a messy douse of color amid the varying shades of beige.
Dustin asked her how her week was going, and she talked about the deal she’d been grinding on and how she hadn’t started packing yet even though her flight to Indianapolis was tomorrow morning. She finally drifted into silence, deciding it was better to be silently boring than noisily boring.
The pizza arrived, and Dustin tipped the delivery man. Rae was impressed he had dollar bills. She rarely carried cash.
They ate on the living room couch, an expensive-looking suede. Dustin rested his feet on the coffee table, but it was a nice table, coasters and all, so Rae kept her feet dangling in front of her, not quite reaching the ground.
She stared straight ahead at the wall—sans TV—as cheese dribbled down her chin. She began to regret her suggestion to order pizza.
“Why’re you sitting so far away?” Dustin asked.
