by Jessica Jiji
“Don’t forget your present from the tooth fairy,” Irwin said, handing Bobby Jr. a black T-shirt. It featured a big white tooth and the slogan “BITE ME.” Irwin turned off the light again, and the T-shirt glowed in the dark. “Wow,” my nephew said in awe as the lights came back on. Emily, too, was thrilled with her Day-Glo socks.
As we stepped out into the reception area, Irwin removed his clinical jacket, revealing a sleeveless Knicks T-shirt, and of course his sculpted biceps. A jolt of excitement sent my skin tingling. Was he showing off just for me? As I watched him affectionately give Emily a high-five, it hit me: I was totally turned on by Irwin Turnov.
Knowing that dental appointments are six months apart, my mind raced for a way to see him again, but the opportunity came all on its own—only not in the way I’d hoped.
“It’s Marisa; she says it’s important.” The receptionist handed Irwin the phone.
Oh. Marisa. Shit.
“Hey, there,” he said, adding after a pause, “Oh, I don’t know, whatever you like.” He shot me an apologetic look, but it didn’t ease my frustration. I’d blown my chance to go out with this guy months ago, and now he was in the clutches of the Massapequa Marriage Maniac.
“Calla lilies or tiger lilies? Either one is fine with me,” he said. Then his tone rose. “Of course I care, but I just don’t know that much about flowers; could you please just pick it? I trust your taste completely.” After another pause, he added gently, “I’m going to make it the most memorable day of your life, I promise, but I have patients here, and I have to go, OK babe?”
Marisa was his babe. My ears burned with shame for even thinking Irwin would want to go out with me. And he didn’t, but he did want a favor. “Sorry about that. My girlfriend’s having this huge thirtieth birthday bash, and she’s acting a little crazy,” he explained. “I want to get her a great present, but I’m afraid she hates my taste.”
“Hey, you can never go wrong with the jewelry at Axasonic Fashions in Soho,” I said, hating myself for being so nice. I should have suggested a head of lettuce.
“I love Soho! Hey, city girl, how about you come along and help me pick something out? Or would that be too boring for you?”
I almost said, “Wear another sleeveless shirt, and I’ll never be bored,” but instead I just gave him my cell number so we could make a plan.
It was a bad week. The editing process made my book worse, and my mother’s growing invitation list made my party bigger. I tried to talk her out of the whole affair, but she had already told everybody about my great success, and the celebration at Leonard’s would be her chance to bask in my glory. If only she knew.
I was contemplating running away to India to become a software engineer when the phone rang. It was Irwin.
Three days later, instead of New Delhi, I found myself in front of a New York deli on the corner of Broome and West Broadway. It was raining, and the streets were slick and shiny. The air was crisp with possibility. Since I didn’t have an umbrella, I waited under an awning watching the wet weather send shoppers scurrying even faster than their usual frenetic pace.
Irwin, wearing a beat-up pair of jeans and a vintage gas station attendant jacket, greeted me with a friendly squeeze on the arm, strictly platonic. But when we walked together, huddled under his umbrella, I felt more than friendship. It might have been that gorgeous mouth; not only were the teeth perfect but his lips were smooth and inviting, and even through our jackets, I could feel his hard body. I was melting under his touch.
“I love this weather,” he said. “It makes New York look like a movie set.”
He was right. Soho was all light and reflection, old cast-iron buildings housing chic new stores, kinetic movement over solid cobblestones.
We ducked into Axasonic Fashions, but although Irwin loved everything there, he was certain Marisa wouldn’t.
“Come on, these rose-gold earrings are totally cool,” I said, pointing to a pair of delicate strings that would be perfect with an updo.
Irwin pulled my hair back with two fingers and held one up against my ear. “Gorgeous,” he said with a sparkle in his eye that made me blush, “but not Marisa.”
The scenario was repeated at the next seven stores we visited. A Stella McCartney scarf, a chunky silver necklace, a sexy little anklet—Irwin and I loved them all, but they were vetoed by the spirit of his girlfriend.
I was starting to think that those two were a less-than-perfect couple when Irwin, staring at the endless array of high-end boutiques that run the course of West Broadway, said with a look of utter defeat, “This is impossible.”
“Maybe you just need a break,” I suggested hopefully, adding in my mind, from her.
Irwin hesitated, but when I told him I had the inside track on an exclusive view of the Hudson River nearby, he was sold. Night was falling, and on the way to the stunning Richard Meier glass tower on West Street, I prayed that either Natan or Ricardo would be on shift. They’d remember me from when I used to walk the Maltese of a minor British royal who lived there.
The bad news when we got there was that neither of my doormen friends were on duty. The good news: There was no doorman at all. It could have been a rotation of shifts, a bathroom break, or maybe a celebrity emergency on one of the upper floors, but whatever, we breezed in like we lived there.
I pressed “Roof deck” on the dusted bronze panel of the silent elevator. Irwin and I were giggling like two trespassing teenagers, delighted at the stolen luxury.
The roof deck was ultra-modern, with an illuminated swimming pool surrounded by gorgeous, plush chairs—no Lounge-Arounds in sight. Now that the rain had stopped, the fog was beginning to lift over the harbor. Far in the distance, the Verrazano bridge, studded with white lights, stretched across the sky’s velvet background. In the middle of the silvery bay stood the Statue of Liberty, making us feel like we’d just stepped into a postcard.
“Wow,” Irwin said. The soft light of a half-moon glowed behind him, and I studied his straight nose, kissable lips, and eyes that shone like onyx. Throwing my shoulders back, I ran my fingers through my hair and hoped the moonlight was being kind to me too. It somehow felt like a momentous occasion. Or at least, the perfect setting for a first kiss.
The reflection from the pool caught my eye, and I turned to face the aquamarine rectangle.
“Should we go for a dip?” he challenged. I blushed again. Why was he always making me blush? Mental note: good sign.
“Don’t dare me, or I’ll do it,” I said, feeling wet already.
“I bet you would,” he said, looking sly.
Actually, I wouldn’t risk getting caught, so I changed the subject. “The gym is incredible, too,” I said, “You would love it.” I figured he had to be one of those guys clocking regular hours on the Smith machine, but he didn’t seem that impressed.
“Yeah, I guess it’s convenient,” he replied. “But I’d rather get my workout outside.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Like an outdoor weight room?”
Irwin laughed. “No, like a messy-as-hell football scrimmage, or a black-diamond slope, or a wild ride down the Colorado rapids.”
I pictured him sweaty and pumped from an exhilarating sport. “Whitewater rafting?” I asked. “I’ve always wanted to try that.”
“Oh, you have to come someday! It’s what rollercoasters were invented to imitate,” he said. “If you like Rolling Thunder, you’re going to lose your mind over this rush.”
“God, I’m excited already,” I said, definitely thinking about riding something other than a river.
He turned to me, sighed sweetly, and put a hand on my shoulder. Is this the beginning of our wild ride? I wondered with keyed-up anticipation.
Instead of kissing me, though, he looked out at the cityscape. “So can you see your apartment from here?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m kind of between places,” I replied, not wanting to confess the whole living-with-my-parents disaster just yet.
“Why don’t you move in here?” he joked.
“Nice view, but it’s totally not my style. What do you think?”
“I’ve always wanted to live in Manhattan but not on the edge of the city.”
“I know what you mean. I’d rather be right in the middle of the action any day,” I agreed.
“Right,” he said, “on one of those eclectic blocks with everything from a raunchy gay bar to a fancy French restaurant.”
“And a twenty-four-hour pizza place in case the mood hits at three a.m.,” I added. “So why don’t you start shopping?”
Irwin looked perplexed, and his hand fell from my shoulder. “I always imagined I’d move to the city first chance I got,” he said, looking out at the Statute of Liberty holding her torch aloft. “You know, raise my kids in a place where culture means more than the nearest Gap, where they can be exposed to people from all walks of life, where they can learn everything from community to what a real bagel tastes like.”
I was floored. My only hesitation about Irwin had been his settled suburban life, but it wasn’t an obstacle at all.
“Anyway,” he said, looking down momentarily, “I guess life doesn’t always work out the way we plan.”
“You never know,” I said hopefully. “Sometimes your craziest dreams can come true.”
Irwin brightened. Looking into my eyes, he said, “Right, you have a book coming out! Trish told me.”
“Well, it’s not exactly—”
“I bet your boyfriend is really psyched for you,” he said.
I wanted to tell him I didn’t have a boyfriend. I wanted to tell him to shut up and kiss me already. I wanted to just kiss him, but at that moment, two security guards entered the private space.
“You guys visiting someone?” one of them asked.
“I came here to see Natan—or do you know Ricardo?” I tried. “They’re friends of mine.”
The other guard smiled. “You’re down with Ricardo and Natan? Okay, cool, but they’re not here tonight, so maybe come back another time,” he said kindly.
We were still laughing as we burst out into the street and headed for the heart of the West Village. Still high from our stint as pretend bazillionaires, we mused on buying an apartment in each fabulous building we passed. A drizzle started up, and Irwin covered me with his umbrella, and we huddled close, even though there was hardly a need, given the warm, early September weather.
There I was, walking around in my dream neighborhood with a dreamy guy, dreaming about sex, when he suddenly steered me to a shop window. “They’re perfect!” he said, pointing to a simple pair of pearl earrings inside. I had completely forgotten why we’d even met that afternoon, and the mention of Marisa’s present was a splash of cold water on all my hot fantasies.
“Sure,” I said weakly. “Great.”
The pearls were ridiculously expensive but totally common. And I was totally smitten but ridiculously deluded.
- 17 -
Embracing failure became my new philosophy, though I didn’t dare tell Vanessa. She would try to convince me that success was within my power, and I just didn’t have the heart to listen to her pep talk. And when it came to the publishing business, No-No Nona was the one in the know. She had made it clear that I was doomed as a writer, so now I could prepare for the worst. Sure, I’d be laughed off all the talk shows, and my name would be synonymous with hackneyed, but hey, at least I’d be alive. And after my fifteen minutes of shame, the public would move on to a new scapegoat, and I could begin anew.
But even as I prepared for failure, the Gallant publishing machine kept planning for my success.
“I’m just so excited the two of you can meet,” the chief publicist on my team rasped, introducing me to Nigel Fensington, the alternate gay history wonder boy. “Nigel, you know, will be giving us a quote for your book jacket just as soon as he’s read the galleys.”
“Why wait?” asked the oily, egg-shaped man. “I’m giving it to you right now.”
“Don’t you want to read my book first?” I asked.
Instead of answering, Nigel scribbled on the back of a grease-stained paper bag from which he had removed a grilled Reuben sandwich. “‘A stunning tour-de-force, Laurel Linden is surely one of her generation’s great new voices.’ Will that do?”
“The contract does call for three sentences,” the publicist said politely.
“Well, then, make up another two and run them by my assistant, will you?” She nodded obediently and left the room, holding the greasy paper bag gingerly.
“Thank you,” I said once we were alone. “I hope it won’t reflect badly on you if my book gets panned by the critics.”
“Why should I care?” he asked, slurping on his messy sandwich. “The critics have always hated me, but that hasn’t stopped me from making a killing in this industry.”
What a lucky guy. “How’d you manage that?” I asked. “By carving out your special niche?”
“Ah, that was carved out by advertisers. You think I know anything about gays? I’m not a homosexual. I’m not even a heterosexual. I’m asexual.” He took another greedy bite. “Once they set the formula, I was set for life.” He finished the soggy bread and started in on some French fries.
“But I guess without critical acclaim, you can’t get on any of the talk shows,” I said, thinking there might be hope for me yet.
“Oh, our publicists have so much power, they could get a hedgehog on ‘World News Tonight.’ You’ll see, kid.”
Trish’s invitation for a Labor Day outing at the beach seemed like the perfect opportunity to concentrate on the 411 about Irwin instead of the 911 about my book.
Jones Beach was an expanse of beautiful white sand. We went out to Field 4, where we used to hang as teens. Listening to the ocean’s roar, watching the seagulls overhead, and smearing SPF 40 all over, we felt as relaxed as we had back in the day, but I couldn’t come out and tell Trish how much I liked Irwin; it would just amount to an admission of how stupid I’d been not to give him a chance all those months back. Everything she had said about him turned out to be true—except the part about him liking me.
After we’d laughed about our families, made fun of ex-lovers, and caught up on old friends, I asked—as if it had just hit me—“Did Marisa Monahan make her goal of getting married before she turned thirty?”
Trish’s eyes glinted with delicious malice. “Ooh, I forgot to tell you,” she said. “The big three-oh is coming up, and the Marriage Monster is out for blood.”
“That same guy?”
“Irwin! Yes! That cutie I tried to fix you up with,” she confirmed.
I was burning to tell Trish that I was crazy for him, but since it looked like nothing would come of it anyway, I embraced my failure instead. “So they’re happy?” I asked.
“They don’t look it—or at least, he doesn’t,” she said. “I saw her leading him around at Roosevelt Field. He was piled high with her shopping bags and boxes.”
Failure wasn’t that inviting, and I couldn’t resist asking, “So you think they’ll break up?”
“No way,” Trish predicted. “I hear she’s having a huge birthday bash. She’s made it known that Irwin’s supposed to propose right there in front of everybody. Rumor has it she even ordered the engagement cake.”
I felt like choking. It wasn’t easy getting used to all this losing. In fact, it was downright miserable. Trish seemed to read my mind and suddenly asked, “Hey, what happened that night at the San Gennaro Festival? You never told me.”
“Oh, Trish, we had the most amazing time, but I guess—”
Before I finished, she figured it all out and gasped, “Ooooh . . . You like him! You have a total crush on the bald dentist! I knew you two would be perfect.”
“Try telling him that,” I said morosely. “All he talks about is Marisa.”
“He thinks you’re still with Lucien, the big art critic.”
“Irwin told you that?”
“He told Tom,” she sa
id, shading her eyes to look at me intensely. “We have to let him know that you’re available.”
I considered throwing myself at Irwin and then realized it would only be a setup for more rejection. Trish had my best interests at heart, but she hadn’t seen that look in his eyes when he found the perfect gift for Marisa. The lower my expectations were, the less likely I’d stumble over them and get hurt.
“Forget it. It’s too late,” I said with finality, the beauty of the beach blurred by my burning tears.
My resolve nearly cracked when Irwin called me later that night. “Hey, Laurel,” he said. “I really wanted to thank you for the best time I have ever had shopping.”
Yeah, great, I thought. I helped you find a present for your girlfriend. “Oh, my pleasure,” I said.
“You really know the city, and it’s so much fun to walk around with you.”
“Thanks.”
“Everything’s such an adventure with Laurel Linden, and I managed to learn a thing or two,” he continued. That one got to me. It was exactly the kind of phrase that never in a million years would have escaped from Lucien’s lips.
“You did? What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know so much about how Jane Jacobs saved the Village from the wrecking ball,” he said. Irwin had been listening intently when I told him about my favorite urban hero. “And plus, I love the way you can just march into one of the most expensive buildings in the city and act like you live there. Don’t tell me the typical impostor from Massapequa could get away with that.”
There I was blushing again. Mental note: I’m in trouble. “Maybe next time we should crash the Dakota,” I suggested.
“Isn’t that where Rosemary’s Baby was filmed? I’m there,” he said.
Picturing us making love in the elevator at the esteemed apartment building on the Upper West Side, I steeled myself to blurt the whole truth: Lucien and I are over, and I’m living back home with my parents, and I’m available, and I like you, and I’m so sorry I ditched you that day, and—