Page 1
Chapter 1
When someone makes a grand declaration, you’re supposed to feel ooey gooey, right? When you’re lying next to a perfectly attractive guy after he’s given you two earth-shattering orgasms, and he’s telling you he wants to make it official, that’s supposed to be a good thing. I should be looking into his eyes and nodding along, but I can’t. All I want in this moment is to get up and go pee because the last thing I need is to travel tomorrow with a burgeoning UTI.
I sit up and look at Rob. I try to really, really look at him. The slope of his collarbone, giving way to a sprinkling of freckles that must be present year-round because they’re definitely not being coaxed out by a frigid December in New York. Hazel eyes, flitting between green and gold, depending on the light. A mess of sandy hair, thick and wild on the top, but buzzed close at the sides. He has a real bed—a mattress and a frame, which actually does say a lot, considering, even if it is an IKEA Malm.
I guess he shut up for a moment.
Shit.
He’s staring back at me now. Prompting me to say something with his all-too-manicured eyebrows. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Rob was just supposed to be a hookup. I must be doing something wrong if my fuckbuddy, who I’ve exclusively spent time with horizontally (and perpendicularly), is asking me to DTR.
When Rob said it the first time tonight, that he wanted to be my boyfriend, it was at the height of foreplay, while he teased my entrance. I thought it was a weird direction to go for dirty talk, but figured it was just the hormones and he’d shake himself out of it after he came. But he’s lying next to me, his now-shriveled cock still inside the mess of the condom, and he’s saying it again.
“I want to be with you, Norah. I’m serious. Don’t you think there’s something here?”
There is nothing particularly wrong with this man. I just don’t quite know how we got to this point. I can count the nonphysical and sexual things I know about Rob on one hand. He’s from the Bay Area. He likes IPAs and Monster energy drinks. I think he has a job? He’s in a band, because of course he is, but he has a day job. I know he does. I just can’t for the life of me recall what it is in this moment. Because that’s not what we do. We have a good laugh and then get down to business. I can tell you so much more about his deliciously curved cock than his greatest hopes and dreams.
“You’re a…great…guy?” I say, every word out of my mouth sounding like a question I don’t have the answer to. “I just need some time to think about it. Plus, I’m flying home super early tomorrow, so I should probably get going.”
Rob’s face falls. I take a deep breath, hoping we can put this all past us. But then I almost see the wheels in his head start to turn. I watch the idea travel from his brain down to his lips, and I jump in before he can even suggest it.
“My mom has such a hard time around the holidays ever since my dad died. This family time is so important.”
He nods, understanding. He doesn’t know my dad’s been gone for nine years. And isn’t that the point? How did we go from hooking up to I think we should be together? When did that shift for him? I’m usually so good at cutting things off before we even need to reach this awkward conversation. I thought I was sending the right message by explicitly not inviting him home with me, but I guess the signals got crossed. How did I miss it?
I’ve been distracted with this trip home, sure, but I should have seen the signs. I shouldn’t have had to play the Dead Dad card. Though, to be fair, my dad would have honestly loved to be the excuse for me to not force this asshat upon my poor mother. You never brought anyone home while I was alive. Why start now? He would have gotten a real kick out of it.
Sometimes, on the rare occasion when I catch myself actually starting to fall for someone, I feel a little hitch in my heart, realizing my dad will never know the person I end up with. It’s dumb, but sometimes that’s enough to snap me out of whatever love haze I’ve been in.
I roll off Rob’s bed, gathering my clothes, and silently head into the bathroom, making a mental note to pick up some cranberry pills on my way home, just in case.
* * *
After stopping at Duane Reade, I walk home, the cold December air biting my lips more raw than Rob had. I never should have made the detour to Rob’s house on my last night in town. I should have known better. Now I’ve got this terribly inconvenient be my girlfriend situation hanging over my head. I should have just stayed in and packed for the trip. Stupid hormones.
I reach my building, making one last stop at the Middle Eastern pastry shop next door, and blessing this city that they’re still open after eleven p.m. Talha, who runs the shop, looks up and smiles at me.
“I did not know if I would see you before the New Year,” he says, his graying hair frizzed out from a long day.
“Come on, I had to do one last pick up.”
Talha nods, folding together a white cardboard box. He begins loading pistachio baklava inside.
“Can I get some kunefe too?” I ask, smiling angelically. “One hard, one soft?”
Talha closes up the box. I leave the cash on top of the counter, already knowing the familiar total, and wanting to leave before he tries to give me any change. When his sons are working, he lets them take tips, but he always refuses mine.
“See you soon!” I call out behind me as I leave, stopping ten feet later to fiddle with the glass door to my sad, yellowing building, barely renovated since it was built in 1926. I see one of my roommates, Aya, smoking a joint up on the fire escape. No one has ever looked as glamorous and as New York as Aya in this moment, her long black hair cascading over one shoulder as she leans an arm on the wrought-iron railing. We share a wave as I jiggle the handle with my key upside down, and then I burst inside the building.
I trudge up the five flights of steep stairs to my apartment, thighs already sore from the night’s earlier activities. I open the door to my other roommate, Luisa, and her boyfriend, Michael, cooking a stir-fry in the kitchen.
“You hungry?” Luisa asks, adding a hefty flick of soy sauce into the pan. “I made too much.”
“Always,” I reply, giving Michael a wave as I put the box of pastries on the counter. “I brought treats.”
“Oh, thank God.” Luisa quickly hands Michael the wooden spoon to stir while she goes to inspect my haul. She pulls her dark, thick hair up into a short ponytail, brushing her knuckles over her widow’s peak twice, an unconscious habit.
“I even got the hard kunefe, just for you.”
