by Virna DePaul
Because if it’s not that, then the alternative is that he has read it and he doesn’t care. He isn’t going to reach out to me, because he doesn’t want to. He’s finished with me and thinks I’m just some desperate embarrassing girl who seriously screwed up.
I’m down to my last pinky nail on my left hand and for the sake of my own sanity, I snatch up my phone and dial Torch’s number that I know by heart. Tony picks up.
“Hey, Tony, it’s Jenna. I –”
“Jenna, Jenna my dear, how are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m great. It’s just that –”
“Why haven’t I seen you in so long?”
“I’ve been –”
“What happened to drinks, my love? I thought we were going to go paint the town red?”
“Yeah, yeah, Tony. We will, we will, but—”
“Have you heard of that new place in Brooklyn? Hello?”
“Hello?”
“Yes, hello?”
“Tony? Can you hear me? Are you breaking up?” This is proving to be more difficult than I thought.
“Yes, I can hear you. Can you hear me?”
“You keep saying hello.”
“That’s the name of the restaurant. The one in Brooklyn. Hello.”
“Oh,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s called Hello? That’s different. What kind of cuisine is it?” Wait, no. I’m distracted. Damn you, delicious new food. “Tony, listen, it’s kind of important that I talk to Lee. Is he there?”
There’s a pause on the other end, and I assume Tony is searching around the place for Lee.
“You don’t know, Jenna?”
“What? Know what?” I stand up.
“Lee’s sold all his restaurants. He’s sold everything. He’s leaving for Chile today.”
“Uh …”
“Oh, lovely, you didn’t know?”
“No, I. I … um, do you know when he’s leaving?”
“Five or six, I think. Maybe seven. I don’t know really, though. Could be four.”
I pull the phone away to look at the time. It’s two. I’m standing there in my pajamas that I never changed out of today, telling myself it’s too late. He’s gone to the airport. He’s gone. But my feet move toward my door, and before I know it I’m slipping on shoes and grabbing my wallet and racing out the door.
“Jenna? Jenna, you there?”
I hear Tony’s muffled voice and laugh as I hop around anxiously in front of the elevator.
“I’m going to go tell Lee I love him, Tony!” I practically shout into the phone. “I’m going to do it!”
“About damn time, child,” Tony says, laughing.
I hear him shout it out to whatever staff is present at the restaurant. As the door to the elevator closes right before I lose the signal, I hear clapping and whistling and cheering.
“House call today,” I tell my doorman as he holds the door for me.
He eyes me in my pajamas and no makeup and messy bun.
“It’s a kink,” I laugh before running down the street.
Thankfully, it’s New York City and cab drivers have seen far crazier people than a single lady in pajamas frantically jumping up and down next to a hot dog vendor. I bounce in the back seat of the cab and the driver doesn’t even attempt to start a conversation. I blurt out Lee’s address without even a polite hello. He merely nods and turns up the radio.
Lee sold his restaurants. All of them? Did he sell all of them? And why? Why did he do that? Tony said he sold everything. What does that mean? His cars? His clothes? His furniture and XBox and toys? What about his beloved personal kitchenware? Did he sell that, too?
“He got rid of his mask,” I say, suddenly realizing it myself. “That’s what he did. He got rid of his mask.”
“What’s that, ma’am?” my cab driver shouts back at me.
“He got rid of his mask!” I yell over the music. “Just like me. He did it. Can you believe it?”
I’m grinning from ear to ear. The cab driver nods before checking to see how much further he has to drive me before he can shove me out.
I roll down the window and take in a big whiff of New York City. It still smells like ass. But the best fucking ass. No, that’s Lee’s ass. His is the best fucking ass. That’s okay New York City, you get second.
Wait, shit. He’s leaving. My happiness stalls for a moment. I might be too late. There’s a huge possibility I’ll get to Lee’s apartment, race up the stairs if the elevator takes too long, and knock on his door only to get no answer. At the front desk, they’ll tell me he turned in his keys a half hour ago and he’s gone. I should prepare myself for that eventuality. I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
But I can’t help it. I want to get my hopes up. I’m tired of keeping them locked up under the false impression that I’m keeping them safe. I don’t want to chain up my hopes, lash them down, bury them deeper and deeper and deeper. I want to watch my hopes soar up above these skyscrapers, higher and higher.
If I crash and burn, I crash and burn.
Lee will be there. I’ll walk into his apartment and he’ll be there and…
I tap my finger on the cab seat and try my best to ignore whatever rust colored stain still lingers there. We’re getting close to Lee’s apartment building now. I watch the numbers on the street signs we pass. As the cab driver blares his horn at a group of idiot tourists, I think to myself I should have prepared more.
That’s who I’ve always been: someone who prepares. I’m the one who prepares and researches and creates Excel spreadsheets and pros and cons lists. I run through multiple drafts and slave over brutal edits and carve and cut until it’s perfect. And then I edit some more. Yes, I’m a preparer.
And here I am in a cab with no preparation whatsoever. Hell, I’m not even wearing real clothes. Perhaps if I had my suit …
A ridiculous imagined scenario pops in my head, making me laugh. The cab driver glances at me in his rearview mirror, then shoves the accelerator down even more.
I’m imagining myself walking into Lee’s apartment building and informing the receptionist that I have an appointment with Mr. Bowers.
“Mr. Bowers, I have a Miss Harrison for you,” she’d say, leading me in.
Lee would give me a confused look as I hand him my meticulously detailed report on why I’m sorry and how much he means to me and how I’ve changed because of him. He’d thumb through the seventy-eight-page report, bound and tabbed. He’d watch me with his head cocked as I pull out my numbered note cards and prepared to deliver my polished and tailored speech.
“Mr. Bowers.” I’d clear my throat. “I’d like to start out by thanking you for agreeing to this meeting this afternoon.”
“Why are you calling me Mr. Bowers?”
I’d ignore him. “Over the course of the next forty-seven minutes, I will be presenting numerical and indisputable evidence of how you have made me a better person.”
“Will there be bathroom breaks?”
“In your report, you will find an outline provided.”
“You’re wearing pajamas.”
“You will see each point is divided into three sub-points with three sub-sub-points for each sub-point.”
“Should I be taking notes?”
Yes, I can see Lee sprawled out on his couch, snoring with his hand over his face as I ramble on and on and on. He’d jostle awake and pretend he’d been listening the whole time when I finally said at the end of exactly forty-seven minutes: “I appreciate your generous attention. I am now open to any and all questions. Thank you again.”
My cab driver screeches to a jerky halt in front of Lee’s apartment building. I barely have time to swipe my card, take my receipt, and tumble out of the back before he’s peeling out into blaring traffic. He cuts off a pedicab to swerve into the farthest lane, as if he’s afraid I’m going to call him back.
I greet the doorman who, unlike mine, doesn’t think I’m a hooker. If Lee is here and not yet on his flight, I’ll have to return the f
avor with his doorman on my way out. At the elevator, I lamely attempt to fix my snarl of hair using my dim reflection in the gold-plating on the doors.
Of course, I could have prepared. I could have procrastinated doing what I am doing right now as I prepared. I’d convince myself I wasn’t ready yet. Next week, I’d tell myself. And when next week arrived, I’d look at my preparations and think, no, next week is better. I’d then convince myself I meant it. Next week, I’ll open up to Lee in person. And I’d believe myself. I really would.
But the next week would come and go. The moment I swore would be the moment would come and go. My ‘next weeks’ would be endless.
That’s all I’ve been doing my whole life, promising next week after next week after next week. Right now is my next week. I’m stepping out of the elevator right now. I’m walking down the hall right now. I’m standing in front of Lee’s door and knocking.
Right now.
And I am so fucking unprepared.
22
Lee
I stare at my apartment front door as if I’ve never heard a knock before. How can I do something as normal and commonplace as open a door when I just read something that is so abnormal and unusual and potentially life changing?
There’s the knock again.
It’s probably someone from the building. Maybe there was a problem with my last check. Or they’re here for the inspection. But I’m not even sure I remember how to walk after reading what Jenna wrote. It’s something like one foot in front of the other if I remember correctly.
Jenna loves me?
There’s another series of knocks. Louder this time.
And she said it over the internet? Said it where everyone can see it, where everyone can know? I— I— I don’t understand.
A thud hits the door that doesn’t quite sound like a fist.
What do I do with this information? I can’t walk or open a door and what the actual fuck, Jenna? Do I run to her? Should I run to her?
Do I want to?
What kind of question is that, Lee, you God damn idiot? Yes, yes, yes. I want to run to her and sweep her up in my arms and tell her how proud I am of her and how I feel the same, how I feel the fucking same. So, I leave my suitcase on the floor and run towards the door, scooping up the jacket with my wallet, and I’m going to do it. I’m going to run to Jenna.
My hand pauses on the doorknob when I realize I have no clue where Jenna even is right now. Work? Probably work. What if she’s out of the office? I don’t care. I’ll search the whole God damn city if I have--
“Jenna?”
In the hallway, I spot a woman walking toward the elevators. Jenna. At the sound of her name, she turns around, startled. Spooked, we both stare at each other. She’s in pajamas. Her hair is falling out of a lopsided bun. It spills down in soft curls, framing her face. Blush sweeps across her cheeks, and she bites her lip. Neither of us moves, as neither of us says a word. I scratch the back of my head and fiddle with my keys and she slips her hands in her pajama pants pockets and then back out, in and then back out.
“I, um.” She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, “I knocked.”
She points to my door and I glance over my shoulder at the dark wood as if I forgot it was there. My eyes move back to her, and she stops biting her nail, dropping her hand.
“I was …” My brain fights for words as I still try to process the fact that Jenna is standing here in front of me. “I was, well, I was just kind of thinking.”
“Oh, ok.” She nods, though I can easily tell she doesn’t understand. It’s not like I said I was cooking and couldn’t stop or I was listening to loud music and didn’t hear her or even that I was in the bathroom.
No, I said I was thinking.
“What I mean to say is…” I look back at the door as if that will give my poor brain the words it’s looking for. “I was marveling.”
“Marveling?”
“You know, like processing something really good,” I try to explain.
She frowns, still unsure of exactly what I mean.
“I was deciding. No, not deciding.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I mean, it wasn’t a decision because I already knew. No, it was never a decision.”
“What wasn’t a decision?” Jenna asks quietly, nervously. But with an undeniable hint of hope.
“That I was coming to find you,” I say, walking towards her. “That I was never going to stop until I found you.”
I stop right in front of her. I see her chest heaving, and she grins at me with that clever, mischievous look that drives me crazy.
Suddenly and without warning, she darts out a fist and loudly knocks on my neighbor’s door. She presses a silencing finger against my lips when I try to ask her what she is doing. Our eyes stay locked on each other as I hear a TV turn off and feet walk toward the door.
Mr. Lang pokes his head out the door and grumbles, “What do you want?”
Jenna pokes her finger into my chest and says, “I love him.”
“Okay?”
“I do.” Jenna smiles up at me. “I love him.”
“Great. So, are you like selling something?”
She ignores him and walks away from me in her slippers. She stops at the next door and knocks. Mr. Lang mutters something under his breath and closes his own door as I meet up with Jenna, raising an eyebrow. An elderly lady opens the door and smiles sweetly.
Jenna simply says, “I love him.”
And then she walks away. Before I can stop her, she’s knocking on the next door.
“I love him.”
Jenna grins at me and runs down the hallway, knocking on doors and not even waiting for them to open.
“I love Lee Bowers!” she shouts, cupping her hands over her mouth.
I watch all of my neighbors step out of their apartments, faces confused or irritated or amused as Jenna shouts again and again.
“I love Lee Bowers!”
I laugh and shake my head and can’t remember a time I felt so happy. I chase after Jenna as she keeps running down the hall, knocking on doors, giggling. She peeks over her shoulder and sees me coming and ducks around a corner. I turn the corner myself to find Jenna facing me, backed against a wall at the end of the hall.
“Nowhere to run, Jenna Harrison,” I say.
She stays still as I make my way towards her and press my hands on either side of her face. She moves her head towards mine, stands up on her tiptoes, and I feel her lips ghost across my ear.
“Who says I want to run?”
This Jenna, the Jenna I always knew she could be, leans her head back against the wall and looks at me with such courage and honesty and not a shadow of self doubt. I’ve known her my whole life, and if someone asked me if I knew what she looked like the answer would be an eye roll and a: “Duh.”
Sure how she looks has changed over the years. She isn’t a child anymore. Her hair’s been short and long and every length in between. But Jenna has always looked like Jenna.
This woman before me, this strong, brave, bold woman, looks different. I see it in the way her chin tilts up a little higher. She’s challenging me and encouraging me all at the same time.
I see it in the way her eyes aren’t afraid to hold mine. Before, she would keep my gaze, but it would always seem like she was counting in her head. As if she could look straight at me for only five seconds and that was it before pretending to yawn or sneeze or check her phone or whatever else to break eye contact with me.
Not now. Even the way her shoulders sit is different. She’s wearing these pajamas with the wine stain on the leg from where she spills when she’s reading and forgets to hold her glass straight, like they’re a couture Prada gown right off the runway.
In this moment, Jenna is the most gorgeous I have ever seen her.
“I, um, did some reading earlier today,” I whisper.
The corner of Jenna’s lip quirks up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.�
��
“Did you enjoy what you read earlier today?” she asks.
I rub my thumb along her cheekbone as she watches me. “I enjoyed it very much.”
I feel one of her hands move from the wall and slip around my waist, moving slowly and gently. The other one follows, and she links her fingers behind my back.
“What did you think of the writing?” She squeezes me a hair closer to her.
I trace my finger down her neck and relish the little shudder her body gives. I meet her eyes again.
“Beautiful.”
She steps away from the wall and shuffles her feet between mine so we’re standing against each other, leaning on one another. Her fingers unwind and splay flat on my lower back. She looks up at me, pressed so very close.
“And what did you think about the author?” she whispers. “The author who wrote what you read earlier today.”
I slip one hand behind her head, tangling my fingers in her hair, and I wrap the other one around her, pulling her even closer, closer than I thought possible.
“I love her.”
Jenna sinks into me as my lips mold into hers. They’re soft and full and exactly where mine should be. Her hands grip my back, fierce and strong. I push against her and she pushes against me. I can feel her heart, beating faster. I’m sure she can feel mine, too, about to burst out of my fucking chest.
The hallway doesn’t exist. The apartment doesn’t exist. The city, with all its people and skyscrapers and tunnels, with all its shouting and honking and screeching, with all its newspapers and flashing screens, doesn’t exist. Everything around us, it’s all gone. Right now, it’s just Jenna leaning against me and me against her. We are everything.
“Hey, there.”
I barely hear the words that echo down from the hallway. They sound muffled, as if I’m underwater, drowning and loving every fucking second of it. I hear the words and I don’t care who said them and I don’t care why. The only sound I want to hear is the little sigh of contentment Jenna makes when I tug gently on her bottom lip.
“Hey!”
The voice is louder now. But still far enough away that I don’t have to care. It’s like the voice of someone shouting at me from across the river, but they don’t have a boat so there’s no way they can reach me. Here in Jenna’s arms, we’re on our own island. No one can ever reach us where we are, together.