Wish You Were Here

by Renee Carlino

  “Have you ever tried to get a show or sell any of these?”

  “Not really. It doesn’t really matter to me.”

  “They’re beautiful, Adam. The world should see them.” Glancing at the clock, I noticed it was almost three. “Shit, I need to text Helen.”

  I stood up, facing the window, and turned to find Adam standing right behind me. His eyes were wide. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He blinked. “Painting,” he said, but he wasn’t. He was just watching me.

  “There you go, being romantic again.”

  “Guess so.”

  “I need to call Helen.” I tried to walk past him, but he pulled me against his body and kissed me.

  When he stepped away, he said, “Who’s Helen?”

  “My roommate.”

  He smirked. “You mean I’m not your roommate?” He was still playing. Maybe we’ll do this all night. I wouldn’t mind.

  “No. Remember we decided to live separately?”

  “I can’t imagine why,” he said earnestly.

  A quiet alarm went off on Adam’s phone. He stared at it.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  “Nothing. No big deal. I’ll be right back.” He went off to the bathroom and I texted Helen.

  Me: Staying here tonight.

  Helen: You okay? Code word?

  Helen and I had code words for everything. It was usually an old pet’s name or a line from one of our favorite movies. Growing up, Helen’s family had Maltipoos. It’s a mix between a Maltese and miniature poodle . . . damned dog people and their overbreeding. Anyway, they had a little black Maltipoo named Major. He would have been adorable if he weren’t an incessant humper. It was just vile; truly, the dog was persistent and fanatical about humping. Witnessing Major molest everything in his path was traumatizing. He was constantly in motion, his little butt pumping in and out. There was clearly something wrong with him. He humped everything from stuffed animals to vacuum cleaners to any leg he came in contact with. Helen and I hated that dog. We called him Major Humperdinck. After high school it became our code for I totally want this guy to hump me. I know, we were disgusting girls.

  Me: Major.

  Helen: Major What?

  Me: Don’t . . .

  Helen: I’m calling the police.

  Me: Major Humperdinck

  Helen: I knew it. Well, have fun . . . slut.

  But I wasn’t a slut. I was Adam’s long-term girlfriend that he had met at the Getty. When I put down the phone, I noticed he was standing near the window, gloriously naked. I lay back on the bed and watched him look out onto the street.

  “Oh my god, honeybuns, you should see this. There’s a couple down there. I think . . . I think they’re falling in love,” he said.

  “What if they look up and see you flashing them? Isn’t that voyeurism or something? You could get arrested.”

  “It’s exhibitionism, not voyeurism. They can’t see me anyway. They’re too busy being all crazy in love with each other to notice anything else.”

  “What are they doing?” I didn’t get up. For some reason, something kept me there, on the bed, watching him in all his innocent wonder.

  “Ah, this is so sweet. Oh, they’re dancing now, under the streetlight. Holy shit, he’s getting down on one knee.”

  “He’s proposing to her?” I asked.

  “Wait, I’m a great lip reader. I can tell you what he’s saying. Okay, he’s saying, I know we only just met, but I think you’re amazing.”

  “Wow, what a coincidence,” I said.

  “Wait, there’s more. He’s saying, I want to spend the rest of my days with you. Oh my god, kitten, he did it.”

  “What, what?” I shouted, caught up in the moment.

  “He asked her. He said, ‘Marry me?’ ”

  I finally jumped out of bed, dragging the sheet behind my naked body.

  I stood in back of Adam, wrapping my arms around his middle as he faced the street. Just as I was peeking over his shoulder to see what he was watching, he turned and wrapped himself around me. “You missed it,” he said. “They’re gone.”

  “I missed it, dammit. Where’d they go?”

  “Probably to have sex somewhere.”

  “Or maybe get a donut and celebrate?”

  “Yes, they probably went for a donut.” He laughed and then kissed my nose. “Let’s dance.”

  We swayed back and forth until we were kissing again. He lifted me with ease to straddle him, then he pushed me against the glass of the front window. “Someone will see us,” I said.

  “So what? It’s the middle of the night. Don’t we do this? Isn’t this what we do?”

  “What, Adam?” I said huskily, trying to catch my breath as he ran his tongue across my neck and up to my ear.

  “Stay up all night, talking, making love?”

  I squirmed. “Yes, we do.”

  He pushed harder against me. “Let’s be in the moment.” I shivered from his voice near my ear. He pulled the sheet around us as he gripped my bottom, pressing me into the glass. Gliding into me with ease, he buried his face in my neck and whimpered. “God, you feel so good.” He looked up; we were face-to-face. There was curiosity in his eyes.

  Something hit me. Adam had done this before, clearly. I looked around the room quickly. Any one or every one of these women in the paintings had probably been pressed against this window, just like this, while Adam moved slowly, in and out, professing his undying love to a person he didn’t know.

  He finished and then breathed into my neck while he held me.

  I kept still, squeezing my eyes shut, forcing the tears back. This is the part about one-night stands that I hate. In the end, everyone is just pretending.

  The rumble of Adam’s chest shook my body as he began laughing. I felt as if I were going to throw up. He set me down. “We probably looked like a ghostly blob in that white sheet, fucking against the window.” His humor suddenly seemed less charming and more callous.

  “Mmmhmm,” I said, a sullen note in my voice.

  He stood up and took a step back, recognizing the change in my demeanor. “What’s wrong?”

  “My name is Charlotte.” My stomach was twisting in knots.

  “I know,” he said. “What’s wrong, Charlotte?”

  Still leaning against the glass, I wrapped the sheet around my body. Adam stood naked, facing me. “Nothing,” I mumbled.

  “Something’s wrong.” With his thumb and index finger he pinched my chin, tilting my head up to look him in the face. He was smiling with his eyes, with utter sincerity and warmth.

  He leaned in with confidence and kissed me, slowly, sweetly. “You’re stunning and that was beautiful and I loved every second of it. I’m sorry you didn’t like it. Did I hurt you?”

  Was it true? Was it a line?

  “No, but are you going to paint it?”

  “Paint what?”

  “Us, what we just did?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I don’t need to. I’ll never forget it and it’s sacred.”

  He paints to remember?

  I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe the stranger I had met on the street hours before wasn’t just playing me. I wanted to believe he was falling for me. I kissed him, dropping the sheet and wrapping my whole body around him. My chest shook from the emotion. He held me tightly to him, rubbing my back as he carried me to his bed and lay me down. I was so bone-achingly tired that nothing felt real. It was all dreamlike.

  He kissed my nose. “You should get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll make you breakfast when we get up.”

  “Things will be different in the morning,” I said.

  “Why?” He slid under the sheet next to me. I put my head on his chest and he held me like we had been sleeping that way for years.

  The glow of dawn began to invade the loft, unwelcome and painfully bright. We were fighting sleep but completely calm, wrapped i
n each other.

  “Have I asked you to marry me?” he said sleepily. We were back on.

  “Every day,” I replied.

  “Well . . .”

  “I always say not yet.”

  Adam was dozing off and slurring when he said, “Why?”

  I’m certain he was asleep when I finally replied, “Because I don’t want you to stop asking.”

  6. Just a Dream

  Hours later, I was startled awake by the sun blasting through the large loft window. I was naked and alone in Adam’s bed. I glanced down at my buzzing phone and noticed three missed calls, all from my mom. I quickly texted Helen.

  Me: I’m fine. Thanks for caring.

  Helen: You guys bone?

  Me: I’ll call you later.

  Helen: That’s a yes, Major Humperdinck.

  Me: Stop texting me.

  Helen: Your mom called here twice. Said your phone was off. I told her you were at church. HAHAHAHAHAHAH!

  Me: I’ll call her in a sec.

  “Adam?” I called out, but he didn’t answer. I figured he was in the bathroom.

  I dialed my mom’s number. She picked up on the first ring. “Church? Please. You’ll have to tell Helen to come up with something better than that.”

  “I went to get donuts.” I was trying to rush the phone call before Adam came back into the room. “What’d you call for?”

  “Nice manners. I just called to say hello. Am I allowed?” she snickered.

  “Of course. Sorry, Mom. I’m fine, really.”

  “Are you still coming to dinner tonight?”

  Right then Adam walked into the room and looked at me peculiarly. “Hello,” he said in a timid voice.

  “Ummm . . .” I was tongue-tied.

  “Did I hear a man’s voice?” my mother said.

  “No. Um, so yeah, I’ll be there for dinner. What time?”

  “Around six?”

  “That works,” I said. Adam was still staring. He walked over and picked up my clothes and set them on the bed before heading toward the kitchen. That was weird.

  “Love you, Mom, I gotta go.”

  Just then I heard a loud crash punctuated by a breathy groan from Adam in the kitchen. I ran toward the commotion, sporting just the sheet. He was buckled over, grumbling, “Fuck, fuck!”

  I ran around the bar and put my hand on his back. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

  He was wincing in pain, holding his hand to his head. “Adam, did you cut yourself?” I looked in the sink at the broken glass and then at his hand. There was no blood. “Adam, I said are you okay?”

  He was groaning, clenching his jaw. “I’m okay,” he said finally. “I just . . . too much alcohol last night, not enough sleep.”

  “We didn’t drink that much.”

  “You know, you’re not really my girlfriend.” And then he glanced toward my clothes on the bed. “I don’t need your help, okay?”

  I stared at him for a moment, then stood up and pulled the sheet tighter around me. “Trust me, I wasn’t confused by last night.”

  I rushed over to the bed, fighting back tears, grabbed my clothes, and went into the bathroom. What the fuck is happening?

  When I walked out of the bathroom, he rose from the kitchen floor and rushed to the door to head me off. “Tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Why did you lie?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That story . . . of us being together . . .”

  I was starting to feel sick to my stomach. “You lied, too.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “Because you wanted me to? Because I wished it were true?”

  He shook his head, pinning me with his stare.

  “I’m sorry.” I meant it. I was sober and it all seemed so stupid now.

  His expression softened. He reached out to touch my face but pulled back. “I think you should go,” he said.

  “I’m already one step ahead of you.”

  I opened the door and left without looking back.

  * * *

  ONCE I GOT home, I proceeded to mope around my apartment while Helen watched me like a hawk. I had told her everything, watching her face transform from totally excited to completely horrified.

  “Did you get his phone number?”

  “I know where he lives, Helen. I don’t need his phone number. Also, I never want to see him again.”

  She was sorting laundry on the couch, looking on while I opened the refrigerator, stared into it uncomprehendingly, and closed it. Over and over again. But there was no point; I had no appetite.

  “I think you should go over there and be like, what’s up? Tell him you’re a grown-up and you know what a one-night stand is. He didn’t have to be a dick.”

  I replayed the night and morning in my head. “The weird thing was that he seemed more disappointed than rude.”

  “Some guys just aren’t straight up about it. They like to make girls feel stupid so they’ll leave without being told.”

  “Oh, he told me.”

  I opened the refrigerator again.

  “You’re letting all the cold out, Charlie.”

  “Do you want to have dinner at my parents’ tonight?”

  “Chuck the Fuck gonna be there?” She was referring to my golden-boy brother.

  “Who cares?” I said flatly.

  “I just hate how your parents dote on him right in front of your face.”

  I plopped down on the couch next to her folded laundry. “Mom doesn’t.”

  “No, I guess not. Pops is just hard on us.” My parents treated Helen and me like we were sisters. Helen sometimes called my mom “Mom” and my dad “Pops,” though I don’t think he was very fond of the nickname. Growing up, she had spent many weekends at our house, so it was just natural, but I think my dad felt that Helen and I had an unhealthy relationship. Maybe we did, but I didn’t care; she was my only friend.

  7. That Computer Thingy

  I was still in a mood when we got to my parents’ house. My mom was asking me a million questions while she cooked beef stroganoff, which I hated, by the way. My brother Chucky loved it, so she made it every time she thought he was joining us for dinner.

  “Is Chuck even gonna be here?” I asked her while I hovered around the stove and Helen sat on the countertop, checking her phone.

  My mom ignored me. “Helen, get off the counter and help Charlotte set the table.”

  “Should we set a spot for the prince?” Helen asked.

  My mom smiled. She actually loved Helen. “Set two extra spots. One for Charles and one for the new girl he’s dating.”

  “Ew, gross, who would date him?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

  Chucky never showed up, even though he technically lived at home. He had zero respect for my parents and they gave him everything, including all of their attention.

  The first thing my dad said after kissing me on the cheek and taking his seat at the dinner table was, “When are you girls gonna get serious?”

  “What do you mean, Pops?” Helen said.

  “I mean, are you going to work at Blackbird’s until they run out of that tortilla soup?”

  “Honey,” my mom said.

  “No, I’m serious, Laura. These girls are gonna squander their twenties playing games at a diner while they date and date and date some more.” He shook his head. “How come we never meet any of these guys?”

  My mom answered for me. “We have. We met that one boy, with the neck tattoo.”

  I looked at Helen. “Curtis.”

  Helen laughed hysterically. “You met Curtis, the guy who used to cry when he saw an El Camino?”

  “It’s not funny, Helen,” I said, “he had a serious phobia. He could barely leave his house.”

  I thought about the night before with Adam. He would have seemed suitable to my parents. Too bad he dogged me.

  Helen knew I was thinking about him. She was staring at me from across the table.

 
“It’s too bad you never got to meet Adam, Laura,” Helen said.

  “I’ve never even heard of an Adam,” my mom replied.

  I tried not to make eye contact with my mom.

  “Helen,” I warned through clenched teeth. My mother caught my eyes. “What?” I said to her.

  “Tell me about Adam.”

  My mom was sincere but my dad, on the other hand, was shaking his head, slurping up his dinner and trying to ignore us.

  “He was a lawyer,” I said.

  “A lawyer?” my mom said. Both of my parents perked up.

  “I went on one date with him, Mom.” I didn’t mention that it was the night before. That would have been too uncomfortable, even for Helen.

  “Why? What did you do?” my dad said.

  “Nothing. I don’t think he liked me that much.”

  “How could he not?” My mother was shocked. “You’re beautiful and smart.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said into my bowl of stroganoff.

  “Of course, leave it to Charlotte to finally find a nice lawyer and then send him running for the hills.”

  “How’s the dental business, Dad?” I tried to change the subject.

  He looked up at me. “Great, as usual. Charles is very lucky that he’ll inherit the practice, but he’s also worked his ass off for it.”

  Helen chimed in, “Adam was an artist, too. A painter.”

  Why was she stuck on this topic? I felt bad enough.

  “That’s romantic,” my mother mused.

  “Yeah, so romantic,” my dad said sarcastically.

  “Let’s stop talking about this,” I begged.

  “Well, I know you don’t want to talk about it anymore, but I signed you up for that computer match thingy.”

  Why is it that so many people over the age of sixty refer to everything on the Internet as some sort of “computer thing”?

  Helen was trying to contain her laughter. “Laura, do you mean Match.com?”

  My father was groaning audibly now.

  “Yes, that’s it. Charles helped me put up her profile.”

  “Oh my god, Mother. Are you kidding me?”

  Helen jumped out of her seat and started running toward the computer in my dad’s home office, which was right off the dining room.

  “Get out of there, Helen,” my dad yelled, but she ignored him.