The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  It is well after eight, and I’m hungry, but I just want to go to my bedroom and listen to nineties angry-girl anthems while sipping wine and fuming about what a dick my temporary neighbor is.

  Alanis Morissette has barely started ranting about why she’s here to remind her ex of the mess he left when he went away, when all of a sudden there’s a loud noise and I scream and everything goes dark and silent. I screamed a few weeks ago when it happened too. My heart is racing, but my brain already understands that it’s a blackout from the storm.

  Within seconds, I’m screaming again because there’s banging on my front door.

  “You okay in there?” It’s Matt.

  I don’t know what’s more startling—the sudden power outage, the banging on my door, or the genuine concern in Matt’s voice.

  I shout out, “Yes! Be right there!” and then feel my way around for the flashlight that I keep in the drawer by my bed, making sure I don’t grab my vibrator instead.

  I pause before opening the door. “Are you still out there?”

  “Yes,” he says, as if that’s a ridiculous question.

  I open the door and see that he’s holding Daisy, as well as his keys and cell phone, which he is using as a flashlight.

  “Awww, hi, Daisy!”

  I shine my light in Matt’s face to illuminate his frown.

  “I heard you scream like a maniac,” he says.

  “That was not a maniacal scream. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Did you come by to issue a formal noise complaint?”

  “I came to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I am fan-fucking-tastic, thanks.”

  “Fucking A. Do you know where my aunt keeps her flashlights and candles?” he asks.

  “No. Would you like to come in?”

  He sighs and enters, waiting for me to close the door before putting his dog down on the floor.

  I hand him the flashlight so I can bend down and give Daisy a two-handed welcome. “Hi there! Hey, girlfriend! Were you scared, huh? Were you?”

  “Dogs have night vision,” Matt says.

  “I know that,” I snap. “But it’s not as good as a cat’s.”

  “I know that,” he says, and I can tell that he’s grinning.

  I give Daisy an awkward kiss and then stand up and take the flashlight from him. “I’ve got another flashlight and some candles if you want to borrow them.”

  “Actually,” he says, “hang on. I want to look outside. I want to see how far the blackout extends.”

  I shine the light in the direction of my living room windows, which look out toward the street. I turn it off when we get to the windows and look out. It’s not like we’re all that high up, but it’s clear that it’s dark for as far as we can see, save for the lights of cars. The rain is hitting the glass, and lightning flashes, illuminating everything for one weird second.

  All that electricity in the air out there is not making it easy to ignore the highly charged energy between us today. I don’t want to call it sexual energy. We probably both just haven’t had dinner yet.

  “It’s so quiet,” he says.

  And then a bunch of asshole drivers start honking.

  We both laugh.

  “The blackout shouldn’t last long,” I say. “It didn’t last month, anyway.”

  “I know. We lost power downtown too.”

  He’s quiet for a while. I imagine he’s thinking about his girlfriend, whom he was still living with during the last power outage. So, instead of bringing up our email exchange, I stand next to him in silence, both of us looking out the windows. I place the flashlight on the window ledge.

  Daisy is very calm and still near Matt’s feet.

  I am suddenly aware of how close he’s standing to me.

  I can smell his cologne and hear him breathing.

  I can definitely hear Daisy breathing through her adorable flat nose.

  But it’s Matt I’m so aware of, even in the dark. It’s not like he’s a big burly guy, but something about him just exudes masculinity. In spite of the anger and frustration, I feel especially girly next to him. I’m not used to it. When I’m working with Sebastian, I tend to overcompensate by wearing basic, almost asexual clothes, because I want to be professional. And of course, the guys I know in the art world are all about expressing themselves all the time in every way possible. But Matt’s quiet strength is magnetic. Infuriating, but also magnetic. This guy is making all my girl parts wake up with a jolt, and they’re crying out, Notice me! Touch me! Make me feel like a natural woman!

  Oh God. He can probably hear my uterus yelling at him right now.

  “You don’t have to stay here,” I whisper. It seems wrong to speak any louder than a whisper now, in this rare and treasured quiet time.

  “Do you want us to go?” he whispers.

  “No.”

  My arm accidentally brushes against his when I reach up to push my wet noodle hair out of my face.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  He says nothing.

  I can feel him watching me.

  If I looked, I would be able to see the outline of him, as my eyes are adjusting to the darkness.

  I can’t believe he came over.

  Why can’t you just be an asshole all the time so my brain doesn’t have to keep readjusting to new information?

  I shift my body to face him the tiniest bit.

  He is there, right there, being all tall and quiet and strong and exasperatingly sexy. His arm brushes against mine as he crosses both of his across his chest. Even in the dark, he is so handsome that my eyes and almost every other part of me instinctively wants to feast upon him. After slapping him.

  I can hear his breathing pattern shift, and then he holds his breath. I realize I’ve been holding mine too. Only Daisy is inhaling and exhaling now.

  If two temporary neighbors kiss each other in the dark and nobody sees it or discusses it afterwards, is it still a kiss?

  My chin is tilting upwards, lips parting. I can’t stop it. I think I feel him slowly leaning down toward me, his body only a couple of inches from mine. I take in a tiny breath, and then—

  I scream when the lights suddenly come back on and Alanis resumes her rant in my bedroom.

  I cover my mouth and laugh. “Sorry.”

  Matt is standing still, his arms still crossed in front of his chest, staring down at me. I remember that I have stringy damp hair and am currently wearing a sleep shirt that says Nap Queen across the chest. Probably not what he was imagining I looked like a minute ago.

  Was he even leaning down toward me, or did I imagine it?

  I’ll never know.

  Thank you, Alanis Morissette and Thomas Edison, for being such timely cockblockers.

  That could have been awkward.

  “Guess we’ll be going now,” he says. He picks Daisy up and heads for the door.

  “Okay. Thank you. For checking on me. I appreciate it.”

  He nods. “Your deadbolt still working properly?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Another nod. “Good night, then…Nap Queen.”

  And just like that, just like always, he is gone.

  I go back to my bedroom to turn off the record player and fetch my phone.

  Much to my surprise, there is a text message from Sebastian. All he wrote was: Hope you’re safe at home.

  I am safe at home, I write back.

  Although, my heart is still pounding in my chest.

  Normally, I would attribute that to the message from Sebastian.

  It really was sweet of him to think of me.

  But I am fully aware that it was Matt who made my body wake up tonight, in the dark, next to his.

  It feels like the power hasn’t just returned to my apartment—it’s back on inside me too. I may have imagined the electricity between us, but I feel a surge of desire to draw him, or at least to sketch out the images that he inspires. This is the first
time I’ve drawn something besides trees in years. It’s my appreciation of his physical landscape that demands expression now.

  I sketch quickly, not wanting to lose this feeling, trying to capture the outline of him in the darkness. I flip the page and find myself frantically drawing two figures—a man and a woman about to kiss. They’re standing still, but the rapidity of the strokes gives the impression of motion. That’s how it felt for me for a few seconds. Like we were headed somewhere spectacular, even though we weren’t moving.

  Just as I don’t want to stop to think about where I’d want things to go with Matt McGovern, I don’t want to do any more work on this sketch. I flip the page, letting my hand tell the story without allowing my brain to get in the way, but after a few more drawings, both my brain and my body need both of my hands for something else…

  7

  Matt

  FROM: DOLLY KEMP

  TO: MATT MCGOVERN (personal)

  Greetings from Vienna! Oh, what a city. You know, I never thought of myself as an elegant person, but all this grand architecture just makes me want to put on a ball gown and stop swearing so much (or at least learn how to swear in German).

  So fucking happy to hear from you, Matthew. I’m so glad you and Daisy are enjoying my apartment, and yes, you may continue to do so for as long as you need to. Marty and I are not done trying out all the hotel beds in Europe yet. Speaking of beds and men and women—I do hope that your reason for staying there really is that you haven’t found a new place for yourself and Daisy yet and not that you’re still hoping you’ll move back in with that Vanessa.

  It has been ONE MONTH!

  Nut up and move on, my dear boy. You’re a catch, and I’ve always told you that you deserve better than her. Bless your sweet little boy heart, you’re good at so many things, but you’ve never been good at choosing girlfriends. Remember that redhead you had a crush on when you were fifteen and I came to visit? You thought she was an angel, and I told you she had the fiery blood of hellhounds coursing through her veins. But you didn’t listen, and it’s fine. Tell me, did you keep in touch with her when she was in juvie?

  Speaking of better than Vanessa—I’m glad to hear that you’ve made Bernadette’s acquaintance. She never ceases to delight me, that one… Not that I don’t trust you with my plants, but maybe you should have Bernadette over to check on them. She has a green thumb. And nine other magical fingers that I’m quite sure are capable of making other things grow and thrive as well…

  But don’t listen to me! I’m just your dottie old Aunt Dolly.

  xx DK

  Subtle, as always, Aunt D.

  It’s Saturday, and my buddies refuse to come uptown to hang out, and I don’t want to go downtown to meet up with them, because I don’t want to run into Vanessa again. The last time that happened—three weeks ago—she just happened to be at the same bar where my friend had his birthday party. She accused me of stalking her, started crying and apologizing for being so awful to me, saying she missed me, grabbing me and burying her face in my chest and then telling me she can’t see me because it’s too hard for her, and then ran off. It was pure telenovela-caliber drama, and it made me want to break things. But I didn’t.

  Again, she didn’t ask about Daisy. I don’t know why that pisses me off so much, but it does. I don’t know why I was so sure she needed me, but I did. I don’t know why I thought I needed to love her, but I did.

  I do?

  I did.

  But it lingers. I don’t know why, but it does. That’s a lie. I know why.

  It’s the falling in love part that I don’t want to let go of, even though it let go of me so long ago. It’s the first month of Us that I’m hanging on to. It’s the first time I saw her, when I held the elevator door open for her. The way I felt when I found out she was the summer law clerk at my law firm. She wore no makeup, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, obviously trying to tone down her looks, to no avail. The way she laughed when I quietly gave her the low-down on every single employee, including myself, in the break room. The way she said my name the first time I kissed her when we worked late that night.

  I stayed in love with the firsts. I stayed in love with the beginning and the fantasy of our future, even when it became clear that we had two completely different ideas of the future and two completely different ideas of who I was and who she was. I stayed with her even when it became clear that she had no desire to be the person I thought I’d fallen in love with. Even when it was obvious to everyone that I was blinded by her beauty, I needed so badly to believe that it was more than that, as if you can will yourself into being the right person for someone. As if you could try to will the other person into becoming the right person for you.

  I hate that I can tell my brain what to think and I can tell my heart not to feel, but I haven’t been able to stop my body from missing hers.

  And I hate that I am so fucking horny.

  And moody because of it.

  It’s been almost three months since I’ve had sex.

  Things did change for me after that night when I ran into Vanessa, though. That was when I told my brain it could stop feeling obligated to think about her when I got off. And that’s when my brain made it clear to me that it’s a total fucking asshole.

  No, Aunt Dolly, it’s not because of Vanessa that I’m still in your apartment. I just haven’t found a new place that would be good for Daisy and me. And also because Daisy is having this annoying love affair with your fucking hot weird neighbor.

  Bernadette. I like her paintings. I don’t like that it bothers me so much that she isn’t painting anymore. I hate that I now despise Sebastian Smith, even though I used to like his work, because she’s at his beck and call all day every day and because of the way her voice changes when she talks about him. I like her apartment. I don’t like that when I was in her apartment, my dick of a brain scanned each and every surface, picturing which would be the best to fuck her on, against, over. I definitely don’t like that I can hear things. I don’t like that I know her nighttime habits and her weekend morning routine. I don’t like that I wonder what she’s doing when she’s not on the other side of a wall from me. I really don’t like that I wonder what she’s wearing or not wearing when she is on the other side of the wall from me.

  One day last week, I had forgotten to take my suit to work. I’d needed it for a dinner meeting with my company’s investors, so I came home on my lunch break. When I was in the guest room getting the suit out of the closet, I’d heard moaning from the vent. I hadn’t expected her to be home in the middle of the day. At first I’d been concerned. I’d honestly thought that maybe Bernadette was sick in bed with food poisoning or something. Then, when I’d gotten closer to the wall, I heard the sound of a vibrator. A loud one. Like a mini jackhammer. Soon, she’d begun groaning and gasping and swearing like she was in pain, and then finally she half-screamed, and I thought surely she was done, but she kept going.

  I was so fucking hard that I knew I’d have to take care of it before going back to work. I pictured her with her head thrown back, her eyes closed tight, her pouty swollen lips forming an “O” as she caressed her tits with one hand and worked the vibrator with the other. I’d imagined opening my eyes and finding that she had snuck into my apartment to find me here and then she’d wordlessly climb on top of me for a little afternoon delight. Grabbing on to the headboard and riding me until I exploded into her. After we both came, she’d just kiss me once and then leave. I could see her doing that in real life, and that was a huge turn-on for me. I’d stayed as quiet as a mouse, but following her resounding grand finale, I heard the jackhammer turn off and a drawer slammed shut.

  A few minutes later, I was out my front door, wearing my suit. Fuck my co-workers if they can’t handle me in a suit at the office—I needed to wear that suit so I could feel more in control of myself. When I’d gotten down to the foyer, Bernadette was there, looking very
relaxed and cheerful, talking to a lady with a poodle. The look on her face when she realized I had just been upstairs was priceless. I nodded at her and the other lady and continued on my way back to work.

  I’m always startled by how beautiful she is, every time I see her. It’s strange. It must be some kind of defense mechanism. Despite my asshole brain’s insistence on casting her as the star in every filthy fantasy I’ve had in the past few weeks, when my hand isn’t on my dick, when Bernadette’s not around, that same brain keeps reminding me that she’s not my type. And then I catch sight of her, a block away, three feet away, wherever, and my type is wavy, dark auburn hair, bright hazel eyes that observe and question and mock me, and a sassy grin that simultaneously makes me want to spar with her and slam myself against her. Yeah. I’m feeling the Bern.

  I feel that Bern when I smell her as I jog down the steps to the ground floor. There she is, at her mailbox, wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Saturday morning clothes. I like how comfortable she seems to be in her own skin. When she turns and sees me, she smiles. And then she realizes she’s smiling at me and forces herself to frown.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “Hey there.”

  “You had breakfast yet?”

  “No.”

  “Come with me.”

  “Now?” She shoves her mail back into the mailbox and locks it.

  “You got something else going on?”

  “I mean… I was supposed to clean my apartment and do laundry this morning.”

  “Supposed to?”

  “It’s on my list.”

  “Your To-Do list?”

  “I don’t like to call it that.”