It’s a series of mixed-media paintings that bring together the urban club scene of his youth and the rural landscape that moves him now (it’s the landscape paintings that earned him the bonkers money). It’s meant to subtly convey a disconnect between these two worlds, with the human figure in distress, fractured and slightly out of focus in the foreground, the natural landscape stunning but disappearing in the background. Visually, it works on many levels, but thematically, it seems to be slowly ripping apart Sebastian’s soul for some reason. Which is why I feel so protective of him right now. He pays me for emotional support as well as administrative.
After removing my shoes and going to the office that I share with Sebastian, I check the messages on the landline to make sure there isn’t anything urgent to attend to and then shuffle over to the studio to take a peek. The door is wide open, and I hold my breath as I watch my boss sketch Tommy on the 40x40-inch canvas that I stretched and primed for him yesterday. Sebastian isn’t classically handsome, with his slightly crooked nose from a teenage street fight (so he says), and his thin lips that are almost always pursed in contemplation. It’s the sharp steel blue eyes that grab you, take you in whole, deconstruct you, and then put you back together into something simple and beautiful in a way that only he can see. His light brown hair is just above chin length and shaggy in the way that only a two-hundred-dollar haircut can be shaggy. It’s the most artsy-looking thing about him, other than his black-rimmed glasses. When he isn’t working, which is rarely, he looks like a really sexy cool accountant. But more importantly, he is a genius artist who works harder than anyone I know, and I’ve never known anyone so inspiring.
To be in the presence of such great talent and discipline is stimulating but also humbling. I’m grateful for it. I don’t remember the exact moment when I went from being a dreamer to a realist, but it was within a week of working for Sebastian Smith. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s how I imagine it would feel when you go to the Grand Canyon. To be in awe of something so much greater than you but also grateful to be able to experience it in person. So many dreamers become realists when they meet their idols and realize they’re assholes. I became one when I met my idol and realized I’m not as good as he is at painting, plain and simple. But I am a lot better than him at doing almost everything else.
I manage to turn my gaze from Sebastian to my friend, who is sitting on a tall stool, slouching, dressed in a slim-fitting gray shirt and jeans. He’s posing like a sad, pensive young man. This sight is hilarious to me because while he may be brilliant, Tommy is the most physically active and naturally upbeat person I have ever known.
“If you stand there staring any longer, I’m going to have to start charging you,” Tommy says without moving his head and knowing perfectly well it wasn’t him I’ve been staring at.
I laugh and cover my mouth.
“Oh hello there,” Sebastian says, smiling but without looking away from the canvas. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”
“I didn’t want to disrupt your flow. I got the watercolor paper from Anita. It’s on your desk.”
“Oh great, thank you. Hey, before you get settled in, I forgot to ask you to go to that store in Chinatown to get those bamboo calligraphy brushes I like. One of each size.”
Fuck. I was so ready to hunker down at the desk. “The red sable?”
“Yeah, and the goat hair-nylon mix. To tide me over until the ones you ordered from China are delivered. I’m finding it really relaxing to play around with ink and watercolors when I need a break.”
“Sure. Anything else you can think of before I leave?”
He finally glances over at me, and I swear his eyes light up for a second as he scans the length of me in my blouse and jeans. “Your hair is different.”
I can see Tommy grinning like the devil and manage to ignore him as well as the humiliating flutter in my chest as I run my fingers through my hair. “I just… I just parted it on a different side today, I think.”
“It makes your features look more striking. Isn’t that interesting.” He smiles appreciatively. “Oh, if you get the chance, maybe you can pick us up some of those steamed dumplings for lunch.” He turns back to his canvas.
“I was just going to suggest that.”
“That’s why you’re the best,” he says.
“That’s why you’re my dumpling!” sings Tommy.
After returning from Chinatown, we had a quick early lunch break, and then I returned calls, worked on Sebastian’s schedule for the summer, did some RSVPing, and worked on his expense report for the first quarter. It’s almost five when Sebastian comes into the office and grandly declares that I can go home for the day, now that he’s temporarily done with Tommy. His hair is really messy and his face is tense, and I can tell he wants to be alone.
“Okay. Good day?”
He sighs. “Decent day. Started out good, and then…” He collapses onto the sofa by his desk. “I need to look through the pictures I took yesterday. Tomorrow, when you get in, can you start on a list of venues for a gathering? I feel like throwing a party for my city friends. Nothing huge, maybe a hundred people? Not right away, maybe a couple of months from now.”
“Yeah, definitely. That’s great! Have a good night. Your updated schedule is on your iPad.”
He nods and rubs his face vigorously with his hands. “Perfect. Thank you. Good night.”
Normally, if Tommy weren’t here, he’d probably start showing me the pictures on his camera and waxing poetic about the Hudson Valley, but he just smiles at me and then reaches for the cell phone on his desk. And so, I’m dismissed.
“Okay, he’s obviously a genius,” my friend says once we’re outside, “and he’s definitely a sexy motherfucker who is very fond of you, but I really think your vagina deserves to have way more fun than you’re allowing it to have at this point in your life. I mean, let the poor thing loose on Manhattan every now and then! Like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off for your pussy. I want to see that thing drive around in a stolen Ferrari and sing ‘Twist and Shout’ on a parade float!”
Tommy Blank, ladies and gentlemen. The 27-year-old gay pretty boy potty mouth who has been my best friend since we were at Bennington. He looks like Zac Efron, if Zac Efron didn’t give a shit about how he looked. Tommy has so many talents and interests that he’s not capable of being truly successful at any of them, but he gets by and he is doing a lot more than me and having a lot more fun than I am. Like, a lot more.
For instance, right now we’re walking down the sidewalk away from Sebastian’s place, and he is talking to me while texting someone else and maintaining eye contact with me the whole time. That’s one of his talents. Envisioning an extravagant life for my lady bits is another.
“I don’t think my vagina is licensed to drive in the state of New York.”
“I’m just saying that if Sebastian Smith won’t fuck you—”
“Shhh!” I look around to make sure my boss isn’t behind us, as if he’d quietly follow us around instead of calling Ethan Hawke to talk about jazz or whatever the hell they talk about.
Tommy lowers his voice a tiny bit. “If he won’t have sex with you, then why aren’t you having sex with someone else?”
I truly have no idea why I immediately think of my new temporary neighbor again. “I do have sex. With other people.”
“When?”
“Up until several months ago.”
“Several months ago? That’s like three decades in New York time.”
“It’s just a phase. Sebastian’s been extra busy and stressed-out lately, and I had to get all his tax stuff in order for his accountant, and it’s just easier for me if I can focus on him all the time.”
“Wow.”
“Professionally, I mean.”
“You’re a professional obsessed stalker lady. So modern! So, soooo sad. Hey, what are you planning to go home and watch tonight? Because first let me invite you to my thing, which I promise you will be nine thousand ti
mes more exciting.” He pauses for effect and holds a hand up, daring me to picture the evening he is about to describe.
I hold back on telling him that nothing could be more exciting to me than watching Season Two of Sherlock for the fifth time and starting on the list that Sebastian asked me to make. But I still want my friends to invite me to things, even though I never actually want to go them.
“First, we grab a Matcha green tea soft serve in Little Italy…”
“Damn you.” I love me some green tea ice cream. But not as much as I love Benedict Cumberbatch and list-making. “Go on.”
“Which we consume on the way to the Lower East Side, where we meet Portia and Damian—and whoever he’s currently fucking—at Blue Ribbon for sushi because it’s her birthday.”
I nearly trip myself up and make a sound that’s something like NUH! because dammit, I love Blue Ribbon sushi.
“And Damian’s paying for everyone. And then we sidle on over to Garfunkel’s for drinks—super chill room that you would love—”
“Okay, now I’m already tired.”
“There are bookshelves lining the walls of Garfunkel’s, with real books on them! You can take a nap there, and you’ll need to because then we Uber to Williamsburg for a warehouse party, where two super-hot LA guys are deejaying and one of them might be straight!”
“Nope.”
“Gah!” He throws his hands up in the air. “I almost had you. I should have just told you about sushi and then kidnapped you for the rest of the night.”
“I just want to be mentally functional for work tomorrow. Man, I miss being an irresponsible, entitled idiot.”
“You wore it well, my friend.”
“I love you.” I hug him and kiss him on his cheek. “Thank you for the invitation, but my bed is calling me.”
“Your bed is calling you a boring loser!” he yells out to me as I skip away from him.
While I’m waiting for the train, I read the text that Tommy sent me as soon as I left him: FYI your ass looks hot in those jeans and also you need to get laid like yesterday but also you probably should just have a boyfriend since you’re already so lame anyway, just sayin’
He’s not wrong, but he’s also not exactly right. I send back an emoji of a squirrel holding a nut, just to confuse him and because my train is here.
I’m so excited to go home, not just to get into bed and watch Netflix but because I may get to see that beautiful neighbor I met yesterday. And her grumpy lawyer roommate.
4
Bernadette
Walking up Broadway, once I’m near 85th, my stupid heart skips a beat when I see a tall man in gray step outside the corner store, holding a small paper bag. He is nodding his head and smiling, in a way that suggests he is thinking “no” and “I’m in hell.” Hot on his tail is a hot lady in a business suit who’s holding up her phone at him. She is either trying to take a picture of him or trying to get his number. Her eyes are intense, like she would knock him over the head and haul him into the back of a van if she could.
When he turns and sees me crossing the street toward him, he does a double-take and then waves at me. “Hey, babe!” he says.
I look behind myself, because surely I am not “babe.”
“Bernadette!” he says, sounding annoyed. He waves me over and watches me impatiently as I slow my pace and approach him warily. “Finally,” he says. “I was just telling Carrie here that I was getting worried about you. We were supposed to meet here fifteen minutes ago.” He raises an eyebrow at me, barely perceptible, as he wraps a muscled arm around my shoulder and kisses me on the top of my head.
What. Is. Happening?
He squeezes my upper arm.
“Right! Sorry. The train was running late. I forgot to text you.”
“Okay, well, it was nice meeting you, Matt. Maybe we can get that drink another time.” Carrie doesn’t even acknowledge me. She just backs away slowly without taking her eyes off Matt. Probably taking a series of mental pictures to store in her spank bank.
His arm is still around my shoulder as he guides me down 85th toward our building. I can feel that his muscles have relaxed. Mine have not.
What’s weird is, despite the jarring effect his stupid gorgeousness had on me yesterday, I had forgotten exactly what he looked like until seeing him again today. When I thought about him, I only remembered the spazzy way I felt in the stillness of his presence, his deep voice, the way he carefully budgeted his words, and the way he swept my hair to the side before unzipping my freaking dress.
He looks back over his shoulder, decides the coast is clear, and releases me.
We say nothing as we walk another half a block beside each other.
Walking alongside him, I’m so aware of how tall he is. Now that he’s unencumbered from duffel bags and guitar cases, I can see that he moves with the strength, confidence, and grace of an athlete. When he takes out his key to open the front door of our building, I can’t stop staring at his hand. He notices me staring at it.
When he holds the door open for me, I ask him if he goes for manicures.
“No” is all he says.
“There’s no shame in it. A lot of men in this town do, nowadays.”
“I’m aware of that.”
I don’t bother checking my mail today. I just want to keep walking beside this strangely quiet tall man with the beautiful hand that was very recently touching my shoulder. I have been waiting for him to explain what just happened, and I don’t want to have to ask.
“So, what is there to do around here that’s fun and interesting?” he finally says as we round the corner to the next flight of stairs.
“I recommend ordering in and watching Netflix with headphones.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Being boring at home is kind of my thing.”
“I’m sure you’re really good at it.”
“Hey. I’m really busy out and about all day. In my experience, people don’t like it when I try to take a nap at a bar or ask deejays to turn the music down, so I just go home.”
“You don’t have to explain. It’s fine.”
“Really? It’s fine? You think it’s fine? This is such great news—I was hoping you’d approve, and now I know that you do! Yay!”
“Wow. You’re really good at being sarcastic too.”
“Thanks, I really value your opinion about that also. Who was that Carrie lady?” Damn you for not telling me and making me ask—you’re such an asshole.
“I don’t really know. She just started talking to me in the market.”
“And she asked you out?”
“Yeah. Why do you look so surprised?”
“She met you just now and then asked you to drinks?”
“Yes.”
“Does that happen to you often?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes. I’m usually out with my girlfriend so it doesn’t matter.”
And there it is.
“I mean…” He hesitates on the step for a second before proceeding. His stone-cold-fox face goes stone cold. “I mean I was usually out with my ex-girlfriend.”
“Oh. Sorry.” And now I’m realizing that’s why he’s moved into Dolly’s place temporarily, with just his dog, some clothes, a guitar, and a really bad mood. Lord. I’m so single, it doesn’t even occur to me that other people still have relationships that begin and end. “Is that why you need a new place?”
He ignores my question.
Fine. We won’t talk about that.
“So what’s it like having Dolly Kemp as an aunt? Must be fun.”
He seems to appreciate the abrupt change of subject. “It’s a nonstop party.”
“I like her.”
“She likes you too.”
“She does?”
“She used to talk about you quite a bit. How you’re an artist and you’re a good, responsible, quiet neighbor who waters her plants when she’s out of town. The way she talked about you, I thought you were at least seventy.”
He wrinkles his brow at me and then smirks. “You’re pretty weird, huh?”
“Only to people who are either really straight-laced and narrow-minded or outrageously extroverted.”
“I’m none of those things.”
I laugh. “Oh really?”
“You’re the one who’s straight-laced and narrow-minded.”
“Um no. I don’t feel the need to do extracurricular things just because other people are doing them. I’m a free spirit who happens to be very practical. It’s the best of both worlds, really.”
I frown at him, bracing myself for a wry comment, but he just nods his head and says, “Yeah. You’re right.”
I’m right?
“You’re lucky.”
I’m lucky?
“Most of the talented people I know are a mess.”
I’m talented?
“How do you know I’m talented?”
We reach our floor, and instead of answering me like a normal properly socialized human being, he says, “I’ll talk to you later. I gotta walk Daisy.”
Daisy is shuffling around inside the apartment, making a “yarf” noise, and sounds like she’s going a little nuts. I couldn’t hear her doing it a few seconds ago, so she probably heard him and got excited. Or…maybe she heard me and got excited? It’s a possibility. A girl can dream.
When he opens the door, I get a glimpse of her. She jumps at Matt’s legs, snorting and snuffling, but then she sees me and she looks so happy.
“Hi, Daisy!”
Matt pulls her inside, mumbling that he has to get the leash on her, and then shuts the door.
“Bye, asshole,” I mutter.
“Later, weirdo,” he says from just behind the door.
The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends Page 24