A dog barks from inside. It’s a good bark, assertive without being arrogant, a rare combo. You can always tell about a dog from the bark. It seals in the sense that I’ve done the right thing by agreeing to help Chris.
The door opens and the dog leaps on me like he’s been impatiently awaiting my arrival, like Chris has been prepping him for just how great I am.
I pretend to be put off by the sudden attack, but the pup’s got my heart from the start. He’s an Australian shepherd, a mash-up of grays and whites and browns and blacks. His eyes are delightfully mismatched too, one golden and one navy blue. I’m wearing navy contacts today and it strengthens the bond between us.
“That’s Arnold,” Chris says. It’s pretty cute, the way he’s bursting with pride over this slobbery creature. I wouldn’t have expected it from Chris. He’s not exactly touchy-feely. But that’s the magic ofdogs, how they bring out the best in all of us, even stoic guys like Chris who’ve been trained to think that showing emotion is a sign of weakness.
Chris is looking alright despite the fact that he’s wearing pastel khaki shorts, plus one of those golf polos with a little whale logo. It’s the classic Hamptons garb, a code to let everyone around you know that you went to an Ivy League school and now work in finance and make more than enough money to buy everyone’s drinks at the are-you-on-the-list beach bar, not that you will because you want to hoard it all for yourself. I’m not sure if Chris means to be sending those messages—he may have just fallen into the trap without knowing it, but that’s really no excuse. I have the urge to cut off the constrictive collar of his shirt or at least untuck it, but I restrain myself with pure decorum.
The apartment is modern and sterile with gigantic floor-to-ceiling windows that couldn’t be more of a contrast to the Inn’s. There’s central air-conditioning and I realize how sweaty I am only when the beads of perspiration start drying on my skin. The living room windows face south, down toward the Financial District’s steely skyscrapers, pompous and sleek. The only respectable building is the Freedom Tower, standing a hundred and some stories high, the spire pointing into the sky like a giant middle finger to the terrorists. I don’t do patriotism, but the sight does jab me with a certain pride that America wasn’t scared to build another tall building after the Twin Towers fell, that we won’t be bullied into meekness. I wonder if Chris ever thinks about these things. He’s probably immune to the view by now. That’s how it goes.
Arnold’s not a puppy anymore, but he still has that spunk like he doesn’t plan to calm down anytime soon, like he’s not subscribing to the conventions surrounding age and maturity. It’s a good outlook. We’re on the same page, so I get down on my knees and we start wrestling each other right there on the tasseled rug. I call him Arnie, not Arnold. We’re on nickname basis already.
Chris asks if maybe we could take it easy. “I don’t want Arnold to wreck the apartment.”
By that I know he means he doesn’t wantmeto wreck the apartment, though that’s what the apartment clearly needs—some wrecking. It’s all sharp angles and beige furnishings, like Chris ordered the whole thing straight from a showroom. Nothing personal about it.
The only exceptions are some framed photos of him and Olivia, hanging vexingly straight and centered on the cream-colored walls. Looking around, I notice more pictures of them jammed onto the glass coffee table and granite kitchen counter. I bet there are even photos in the bathroom, so I walk in to check. It’s all ceramic and swirls, and sure enough more pictures are right there by the opulent little soap dispenser. I get the feeling that Olivia put all these up. She must’ve surveyed the apartment from all angles to ensure that there was never a place where Chris couldn’t see her face, because out of sight means out of mind. It reeks of insecurity, but what do I know about relationships?
“Olivia lives here too?” I ask, making a point to show respect by using her name. I choose the high road sometimes, just not all the time because then it’s not a choice, it’s a default.
“No,” Chris says. “I live by myself. Olivia and I have only been dating five months.”
Doing the math, I conclude they must’ve met soon after Chris fell for me at the art gallery. Very briefly and very rashly, I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d agreed to go out with him then. Perhaps this apartment might have more color and less order. Probably not, since we would’ve fizzled out long ago and he would’ve met Olivia or someone identical to Olivia by now anyway.
There are two bedrooms, and the entire spare room feels like a gross display of income inequality. I could hate Chris for it, but I’m feeling extra agreeable today so I decide to just hate the system instead.
“Why isn’t Arnie going to the Hamptons with you?” I ask.
Chris explains how he wanted to take him, but Olivia’s dad has a bad dander allergy and Chris is trying to make a good impression since it’s the first time they’re meeting.
He seems nervous about it, which makes zero sense. Chris is the textbook definition of the ideal guy to bring home. My mom would be over the goddamn moon if I arrived back in Michigan for Christmas with Chris in tow. My dad would be all for it too since he’s worked himself into an uproar thinking I’m never going to settle down, that my Brooklyn friends are bad influences. All the Wendys becoming Peter Pans, the most wonderful plot twist of our generation, but my parents don’t see it that way.
Chris starts reciting a bunch of directions that he wants me to follow for watching Arnie, like the exact route to take him out on a walk twice a day. North on Greenwich Street, west on Hubert, down to the end of Pier 26, and back. And it’s the same thing for the dog food. One and a half scoops at 8:15 a.m. and 7:30 p.m. with a half scoop at 1:45 p.m., and on and on he goes. There’s no question he’s an accountant. All that attention to detail makes me crazy just listening to it. It feels like a construction drill is pressing into my skull.
“You can sleep in the spare room,” Chris says. “The sheets are fresh.”
My toes curl and my lips too. “Does Olivia know I’m staying here?” I ask.
He blushes rose gold at that, flattering evidence of how he really feels about me. He says that no, he didn’t mention to Olivia which of his friends was taking care of Arnold; it just hadn’t come up, and he’s not trying to hide it or anything. That makes me smirk like sunshine.
Chris starts arranging color-coded lists with all the information, displaying them so prominently on the counter that no one could miss them unless they were really trying to.
“You know I’m not really going to look at those, right?” I say.
His forehead creases into well-practiced lines, probably written by all that vapid stress about work and relationships and the life track he thinks he’s supposed to be on. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Remember why you asked me to dogsit?” I say.
“I’m having a bit of a hard time now.”
“It’s because I’m different,” I say, and we both know I’m right. If he’d wanted just another follow-the-directions type, he never would’ve called me.
Arnie wags his tail like he’s trying to tell Chris not to worry, that he wants a change of pace with a zany playmate. I expect Chris’s risk-averse nature to take over and talk himself out of it, but he just nods and swallows his anxiety in one gulp.
Chris gets his luggage, a wheely suitcase that’s excessively large for just a weekend away. It’s like he’s packed four backups of everything, just in case. He spends a long time triple- and quadruple-checking that he hasn’t forgotten anything and that all the outlets are unplugged and that the windows are locked and that the spare key is in the envelope on the counter. It makes me feel a rush of compassion at how hard it must be for him to need everything to go a certain way. It’s easy for me to make fun of routines because of how free-spirited I am, but it’s just not how some people are wired.
An uncomfortable sensation shifts inside me, like a hug is trying to paw its way out. I don’t embrace Chris; I just arrange my face in a way that I hope he’ll interpret as genuine.
