“Deal,” says Aiden, once we’re alone again. “Three digits and lunch on Friday.”
I straighten in my seat, start assessing the mountain of food in front of us, and say, as nonchalantly as I can: “Nine. One. Seven.”
Aiden has his phone out in a flash, and he’s thumbing away at the screen, presumably to save the numbers I’ve given him. It only takes him a moment, and with a satisfied look on his face he pockets the phone again and looks up at me. “I’m a lawyer.”
“Oh!” I say. “So is my roomie. I’d say you should come over and meet her, but she’s hardly ever away from the office.”
“She’s an associate, then?” he asks, and the dread I feel at the prospect of him working the same insane hours as Valerie eases up a little.
“Yeah. I take it it gets better?”
“If you want it to,” he says. “But there are plenty of partners practically living in their offices, too. Which firm is she with?”
I freeze, my brow furrowing. “Oh, God,” I say, grimacing. “Is it terrible that I can’t remember the name of my best friend’s company?”
Much to my relief, Aiden laughs, shaking his head. “Not at all.” Then, a question seems to occur to him. “Oh, hey,” he says.
I look up, expectant.
“Tell me about the building.”
“What building?” I ask.
“Your studio. It’s right in the middle of a bunch of commercial buildings. So who’s the holdout?” He’s smiling, looking at me with an amused quirk on his lips, like he’s almost certain it’s me. I’m flattered.
“Not me,” I say. “I could never afford a piece of prime real estate in the middle of New York City. And if I could I’d probably sell it and use the money to buy a nice place further out, with more space.”
He tilts his head at me. “You don’t like the city?” he asks.
“I like it enough,” I say. “My life is here, but I’m not going to charge top dollar for sculptures that are meant for children’s hospitals and community centers, so I’ll never be really financially comfortable. And I do get more inspiration when I’m closer to nature. Is that terribly cliché?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. He looks thoughtful, like there’s something else going on in his head, even though he’s listening to my every word.
“But anyway, the building belongs to a man called Mr. Ling. He was a friend of my grandmother, and she rented this place from him way back in the day. She was a seamstress. When Mr. Ling’s wife left him, she helped him out a lot, bringing meals for him and his kids, mending their clothes. Of course, he was back on his feet soon enough and he remarried, but he never forgot her kindness. He kept her rent the same and refused to sell even when the development companies were offering him astronomical prices for the place. When my grandmother got old enough to retire, I was just starting to get more serious about sculpture. My parents were sick of me filling up the garage with all sorts of junk, so my grandmother had a word with Mr. Ling and he agreed to rent this place to me.”
“For the same price?” he asks.
“Yep. And when she passed a few years ago—”
“Sorry,” says Aiden, and he means it.
“Thank you. But yeah, he said I could stay here and he wouldn’t raise the rent. So that’s what I do. Otherwise I’d be sculpting in the street somewhere, because I sure as hell couldn’t afford a studio like that at market price.”
“Well then,” says Aiden, lifting his beer. “Here’s to Mr. Ling.”
I smile and lift my sparkling water in return, and Aiden nods to the food, laying his napkin down across his lap. “Right. Let’s dig in. This all looks great.”
And it is. There are juicy ribs covered in sticky sauce, fat, char-grilled sausages, blackened little burnt ends that taste like summer, and spicy wings that leave my lips tingling. The side salad is crunchy and delicious, the fries are perfectly cooked, and the whole thing has us licking our fingers and wiping our chins the entire time. The way we chat, it feels like we’re a couple. A real couple. There’s never an awkward silence or a failed joke. We talk about his apartment and the help Lexi has given him with furnishing it, about the coincidence of us meeting like that in a city of over 8 million, and we reminisce about our vacation in the ski lodge.
“And I still can’t ski,” I laugh, sitting back, finally, my stomach satisfied by the feast.
“I’ll teach you next time,” he winks. “If I’m not too rusty. Dave seems to think I’ll barely be able to keep my balance on the slopes next season.”
“Ahhh,” I say, remembering Dave, and trying to ignore the fact that Aiden just said there would be a “next time” at the lodge. My heart is suddenly beating at double pace. “How is he?”
“Great,” says Aiden, nodding. “He’s coming to stay for Christmas, so you’ll get to see him, I hope.”
My heart does a little leap. Not because of Dave, though from our short acquaintance he seems like a great guy—but because Aiden is talking as though we’ll be spending time together over Christmas. In the future. I’m starting to hope that we’ll make this a thing—a real, real-life thing—and every time I think it I get this sinking feeling, like it’s all too perfect to be true.
“That would be great!” I say, with genuine enthusiasm. “Does he always stay with you at Christmas?”
Aiden shakes his head. “Nah. But every few years or so. His parents spend a lot of time in the lodge and they like to get away to the sun when they can, which is pretty much just Christmas and New Year. Dave’s not into it - he’s more of a White Christmas type - so he comes to stay with me or spends time with his sister Anna and her family.” He wipes the corners of his mouth with his napkin, sets it down on the table and leans back in his chair, looking satisfied.
“Though, between you and me, Lexi has way more to do with him coming here than I do.”
“Oh?” I say, brows lifting. I can feel myself leaning forward a little at this snippet.
“Yeah. He’s been madly in love with her ever since he was sixteen. They had a thing one year at the lodge, but then she started Wirl and moved here and I guess it just fizzled out.”
I try to think of them together and it doesn’t make any sense. She’s so pristinely put-together and professional, and Dave, while undeniably handsome, is so completely laid back and chill that it’s hard to imagine them not driving each other crazy.
“Hmm,” I say, and Aiden seems to catch the skeptical tone in my voice. He smiles.
“Yeah. I don’t know either.” He calls the server over to ask for the check and turns back to me.
“You want to go for a cocktail?” he asks, and then nods to my glass of sparkling water. “Or are you completely off alcohol?”
“I mean, I’m not teetotal for life or anything,” I say. “But I’ve been on a bit of a health kick recently. Promised myself a full year of clean living. And I need to be at the studio early because the deadline is looming for that mermaid piece.”
Aiden clasps his hands over his heart in mock pain. “I know when I’m being rejected,” he says, grinning. “But at least let me drop you home in my cab.”
I look at him, my eyes narrowing again. What’s the point of refusing to give him my number if he has my address?
“I’ll close my eyes when we get to your neighborhood,” he says, and holds his index finger and middle finger together, against the side of his forehead. “Scout’s honor.”
“It’s three,” I tell him. He gives me a quizzical look. “Three fingers.”
He quickly flicks up another finger—his pinky, on purpose—and grins.
“Fine,” I say, rolling my eyes theatrically. I live in an apartment building, anyway, so it’s not like he’s coming right to my door. At least, that’s how I convince myself to let him into my life just that little bit further.
When the check arrives, he will not hear a single word of me paying anything toward it. I try to give him cash, I offer my card, and when he refuses both and
I offer to Venmo him, he says: “I don’t know what that is. I’m old,” as he hands his card to the server.
“Besides,” he says, as we stand to leave. “You’re buying me lunch, remember? Friday.”
“Bagels in the studio is hardly the same thing,” I protest as he slips my coat over my shoulders.
“A meal is a meal, little Pip,” he grins. He signs the slip with a flourish, pockets his card again, and we head outside to hail a cab.
Aiden
December 13, 2018
I get home late on Thursday after picking up my dry cleaning, and unexpectedly find Lexi in my kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee. “Hey Lexi!” I call, teasingly. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Oh, hey!” she smiles, looking at me over her shoulder. “Sorry I didn’t message you. I have a meeting on this side of town in the morning so I thought I’d come and stay here. Find out how you’re getting on at the new office. Want a cup?” she asks, nodding to the coffee machine. “It’s decaf.”
I accept the drink, and we sit on high stools at the breakfast bar, sipping coffee late in the evening. I tell her about the new office, the mishaps and successes, the clients that have come with me, the clearly deluded clients that didn’t, and the new clients I’ve gained through the merger.
“And Pippa?” she asks, when she’s bored with listening to me talk about work.
I smile at her, and she grins, placing her coffee down on the counter.
“Oh, dear, Aiden. I do believe you like this one.”
“What do you mean, this one?” I say. “This is the first woman I’ve dated since college.”
It’s technically true. There have been one-night stands, but nothing serious since Sophie.
“Darling,” she says, affecting an overly dramatic tone. “Let me be dramatic!”
At least she’s self-aware.
“She’s great,” I say, nodding. I’m smiling without meaning to. “Really great.” I know she wants more. She’s looking for titillating gossip from her younger brother’s life. I’d usually indulge her, but with Pippa it’s just… different. I want to keep it to myself and savor it. Every moment that I’m not with her is a moment wasted, and every moment that I am with her seems to pass in the blink of an eye.
“Oh, come ON,” Lexi says, exasperated. “Give me something here.”
“Well, I was thinking of inviting her over on Christmas day.”
Lexi looks at me, open-mouthed. “Wow. Really?” she asks. “That’s… pretty serious. Right?”
“Right,” I nod. “But I don’t want to scare her away,” I say, slipping accidentally into the sort of over-sharing Lexi is hankering for. “She still hasn’t given me her number, but it—”
“Wait, wait,” says Lexi, flapping her hand at me. “Still no number?”
“I have three digits,” I say. I sound almost defensive. “Long story. But it feels right. You know?”
“No, Aiden,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember what a real man smells like. My magazine is my baby and my lover and my best friend. Sad, isn’t it?”
“Very,” I agree, nodding. I try to keep a straight face, but when she looks over at me I crack a smile and Lexi bats a hand at my shoulder.
“Well, I don’t see any harm in inviting her,” she says, after a moment’s thought.
“That’s what I thought. It’ll be you, me, Dave and her. And maybe her roomie, if they were planning to spend the day together. It’s not like it’d be just the two of us pretending we’re married or something.”
“You met her roommate?” asks Lexi.
I shake my head. “No. But I’m gonna invite her, just in case.”
“Well. Like I said, no harm in asking. I’ve got one of those blow-up beds at my place. I’ll bring it here, just in case.”
“Thanks, Sis,” I say. Even the thought of having Pippa here with me on Christmas day fills me with excitement. The last time I felt this way about the holidays, I still believed in Santa Claus.
“Oh, I wanted to ask you a favor,” I continue, getting up to refill the coffee machine. Lexi perks up immediately, a quizzical look passing across her face. I seldom ask her for favors. Partly because she always offers her help and organizes everything without being asked—whether you want her to or not—and partly because I can get most things I need without having to ask anyone.
“Go on,” she says, intrigued, sliding her cup down the counter toward me. I refill both our drinks and sit down to explain. She listens quietly, sipping her coffee and nodding thoughtfully now and then. By the time I’m done explaining, Lexi has agreed to think about my idea and pitch it to her team tomorrow. My head is still buzzing when I collapse into my bed, and I’m still tossing and turning when the clock ticks over to 2 am.
Despite my lack of sleep, I practically skip out of the office at lunchtime on Friday. My car is already waiting, and the driver gives me a funny look as I whizz past him into the back seat, grinning broadly.
“Afternoon!” I say, when he gets into the front. I give him the address of Pippa’s studio and sit back, looking out of the window. The excitement of seeing her again makes everything seem a little brighter, and I watch the world go by for the full twenty minutes it takes us to get there. Not even the irate honking of cab drivers can dampen my mood.
But Pippa can.
I tell the driver to come back in an hour and hop out of the car, closing the door behind me. The heavy metal door of the studio is slightly ajar when I get to it. I’m not sure if that means she’s in there with a client or something, so I push it open quietly and head inside.
As I round into the main, open space of the building, I see her standing alone in front of a workbench. She’s wearing her clay-stained baggy pants and a thick, figure-hugging pullover, and her hair is tied up in a high ponytail.
Being careful to be quiet, or at least quiet enough that the combined sound of the whirring space-heater and the low-volume radio disguise my steps on the concrete floor, I sneak up behind her and slide my arms around her waist.
“Hey, beautiful,” I croon, beside her ear.
She sniffs.
“Hey!” she says.
It’s a bit too enthusiastic, a bit fake, and her voice sounds thick with emotion. I spin her around, and I can feel my heart skip a beat when I see her face. It’s all red and blotchy—she has clearly been crying, a lot. There are still tears running down her cheeks, and she bats at them angrily with her hand.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, holding her by her upper arms and searching her face for answers.
“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head.
“Stop apologizing and tell me what’s wrong.” I can hear that edge in my voice again, but I can’t help it. Seeing her upset like this has caused my mind to narrow to a singular focus. The only thing I want in this moment is to find the source of her sadness and eliminate it. I want to wrap her in a hug and see her beautiful smile.
She doesn’t seem to mind my tone. She lifts her right hand and hands me a crumpled bit of paper.
Pulling her into my chest and holding her there with one arm while she sniffles, I hold up the paper and read it.
Mr. Ling has passed away. Over a month ago, and nobody bothered to tell her. On top of that, his son—presumably one of the children who spent part of his life being fed and cared for by Pippa’s grandmother—has inherited the building. He doesn’t want to sell, the letter says, but he’ll have to if it doesn’t start making some money. So he’s putting the rent up to market price. The new rent figure is astronomical, and not at all justified by the little brick box building—but it is justified by the location. And he can do it, because there’s no written lease agreement in place. He could sell this place for a fortune, and that’s probably his plan. Force out the struggling sculptor and sell to some commercial developer.
“Bastard,” I angrily exclaim, unable to contain myself.
Pippa has gathered her composure a little and takes the letter back from me.
“Sorry, Pip,” I say, smoothing her hair while I run over every possible solution in my mind. It’s all on the up-and-up, legally speaking. He can charge her market rent as a new owner and there’s not a damn thing she can do about it without any contract in place. I look around the studio at all the pieces, and I feel like my rage might burst out of my chest at any moment. The entire room is packed with things that sing of her.
“It’s alright,” she says, dabbing at her face with her sleeve.
I stop her, and wipe my thumbs underneath her watery eyes.
“I knew it was coming, one day. I guess I just hoped it wouldn’t be today. Or tomorrow. I’m stupid to have no plan, really.”
“We’ll figure something out,” I tell her. I pull her over to the small, battered old couch at the far side of the studio and we sit down together. She leans into me and stares across the room. I stroke her hair and listen to her breathing as it settles, trying to think of anything I can do to help. I could maybe buy the place, at a stretch, and give it to her, but I really think she’d hate that idea. She’d say it was a crazy plan—if she didn’t run away screaming—and she’d be right, considering how little we know about each other. That’s way too much pressure to put on a new relationship. Especially considering that all my liquid assets just got plowed into my equity buy-in, so it’d mean a mortgage. A big one. But there must be something I can do.
“Hey,” she says after a while, pushing up from me and turning to look at my face. She’s still a bit red and blotchy, but she’s not crying anymore. That, at least, is a relief. “I got you a bagel.” She smiles weakly. She leans down and digs around in her huge bag, pulling out a distinctly bagel-shaped package.
“So you did,” I say, taking it from her. She’s trying not to dwell, so I don’t want to pull her back into thinking about the letter. Keeping my arm around her, I open the bagel on my lap, one-handed.
“Oooh,” I say. “Green stuff!”
She laughs, her face cracking into a wide smile that lifts her rosy cheeks, and I feel relief flood my veins.
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