Page 24
“You would think,” I exclaim, trying to recover, perhaps a bit overenthusiastic. “But a lot of times one of them is in there alone and they just leave the water on and swap out. I cannot for the life of me find a consistent time to shower. I’m in a constant battle with them over the damn bathroom.”
Henry’s brow furrows. “That sounds very wasteful.”
“Worst part is that her boyfriend only lives like, two blocks away. He has a perfectly good shower so close by. With one of those rainfall showerheads too! Like, hello, I will trade you, sir!”
“My old roommate when I lived in LA—don’t get me wrong, he’s still a close buddy of mine—but he was always bringing girls home and hooking up in the living room. On my leather sofa.”
“At least leather is harder to stain?”
Henry just shakes his head like he’s recalling a memory from war. “There are some things that just make you say, No, Nick, you keep the sofa.”
“That bad?”
He nods, a slight shudder running across his back. “Nowhere near worth the cross-country trek.”
“What about you and girls? Or people. I don’t want to assume.” It slips out the way things tend to around him, or maybe it’s the wine I drank too fast.
“Girls,” he repeats. “Norah Gold, are you asking about my love life?”
“Love life? Oh God,” I laugh, when I really want to say Tell me about a girl so I can lock whatever nonsense I’m feeling back away for another decade.
“Do you really want to talk about this?” Henry asks, his words heavy with trepidation.
No, yes, tell me everything.
“I’m about to be your sister,” I say, and I swear I see him flinch. “I should know things about you.”
“I’m a busy guy. I work long hours. And sure, there have been some women, but…”
“Anyone important?”
“Not for a long time.”
It hangs in the air for a moment, maybe longer, the wine coursing through our bloodstreams making it impossible to tell.
“And you?” Henry asks eventually.
I shrug. I should have expected it. Never pose a question you’re not prepared to answer yourself. I should have known better.
“There have been some guys. But I’m not great at relationships,” I blurt out, the wine acting as a truth serum.
“I don’t believe that,” he says, looking at me earnestly.
I panic when it gets serious, I could say. Or I have a hard time trusting. Or I bolt before they get the chance to hurt me.
I could say I don’t need a therapist to tell me that this stems from you.
Instead, I try to keep it simple. “I’m a runner.” And then, for some reason, I add, “I only extended my trip beyond the weekend to avoid a guy I was hooking up with in New York who tried to Girlfriend me.”
“You don’t like this guy?”
“No,” I admit. “He was just…there.”
Henry looks like he’s taking that in. “I was seeing someone back home too,” he says finally.
Somehow, I know that home means New York to us both, and the realization of our shared childhood dream fulfilled sends a tingle up my spine.
“Didn’t work out. It wasn’t that serious anyway.”
