xx Dolly
Well, I guess she didn’t get the message.
Although, I barely got a message from Matt either. Just a picture that made me burst into tears as soon as I saw it and a hot pink Post-it Note with his new address on it. This is more than I usually get from a guy when a no-strings thing has ended but so much less than I wanted from Matt McGovern, Esq.
I don’t know why I feel so hurt that he didn’t bring up the idea of me moving to Brooklyn. I don’t even mean moving in with him. I mean, it would have been nice if he had just asked if I’d be interested in moving to a place in Brooklyn so we could live closer to each other. But that’s crazy. We haven’t known each other long enough for that. Right?
I know I should have brought the idea up myself, but I felt so blindsided after Sebastian’s news and then seeing Vanessa, and now that he’s moved it just feels like it’s too late. It has only been a few days since he moved, but too many New York minutes have passed, and the fact that he didn’t bring it up says a lot.
And yet, Sebastian has asked me to move in with him. A few months ago, I probably would have done backflips all the way to Hudson Valley. I did love Catskill when we visited on the weekend. He was a perfect gentleman when we spent time together. It was work, and he is a nice boss. He didn’t cross any boundaries because I think I made it pretty clear to him that I wasn’t open to it anymore. If he’s at all heartbroken, he’s doing a great job of hiding it.
I, on the other hand, feel like people can just tell that I’m one country song away from bursting into tears. I can’t believe how quickly Matt went from there to not there. But when I think about how unemotional he seemed, having moved away from Vanessa after living with her for years, it makes sense that it would take him three seconds to get away from me. And I’m so mad at myself for being angry and sad about everything when I’m the one who didn’t want to get attached in the first place.
I should have stuck to the rules.
I should have stuck to Netflix.
But it’s impossible to go back to the way things were. This bedroom, this bed, feels so empty without Matt McGovern in it, or at least on the other side of the wall from me. Even my Apple TV Netflix app is pissing me off by constantly rearranging my carefully curated list of shows and movies like some shitty houseguest. I can’t find anything anymore. All Matt ever did to piss me off was rearrange my life and steal my heart.
It’s shameful how fast that heart races when I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket and how I feel the whole weight of the world on my shoulders when I see that the wrong person is calling me. It’s Anita again. This is the third time she’s called in the last two days, and I let it go to voice mail because I assume that she wants to talk about Matt. I don’t have the energy to have a conversation with her about hormones and penises right now.
It’s late, and I spent the whole day at Sebastian’s place making very specific labels for moving boxes and hiring the most expensive, highest-rated moving company in the city. Everyone is moving and coming and going and I’ve just been sitting on my bed feeling sorry for myself, so I force myself to get up and check on Dolly’s plants to make sure they’re still in good shape. Also to make sure there’s no evidence of my sexcapades with her nephew—not because I think it would bother her but because I’m afraid she’ll ask me to describe every last detail when I see her.
It is so weird to be in 4B now that Matt and Daisy aren’t here. I may have to move just so I can get away from the lingering scent of Matt’s cologne. I better make this fast, or there is a good chance that Dolly will come home to find me curled up in a ball under the guest bed comforter, sniffing it. I stick my finger into the soil of all the potted plants in the living room and kitchen—all moist and healthy. Matt must have remembered to water them before he left.
What a guy.
The plants in Dolly’s bedroom and bathroom are all good—that leaves the one in the guest bedroom. The door is closed all the way. I knock first, as if there’s a chance maybe Matt’s hiding in there, waiting to jump out and yell, “Surprise! I couldn’t leave you!” I laugh at the very thought of it because it would be so unlike him.
When I open the door, I try not to look at the bed, just head for the fig tree. But something else catches my eye—a hot pink Post-it Note that’s dangling from the wall behind the painting over the bed. My painting. I recognize Matt’s neat, controlled handwriting and see the words fucking hot. Pulling it from the bottom of the painting reveals the whole note: You’re so fucking hot.
Did he leave me another note on a Post-it and forget to put it in the envelope? I mean, it had better be for me and not his aunt. I find myself smiling, but I hope that’s not all he wanted to say to me. I notice that my painting is hanging a bit crooked. When I angle it to straighten it, I hear something rustle behind it.
I lift the canvas from the hook and find dozens of notes stuck to the wall.
And here we thought I was the nutty one…
I pluck one note at a time.
Thank you.
You’re good in bed.
You’re good out of bed.
I think about you all the time.
I like thinking about you.
I’m glad I met you.
I don’t know if it would have been better if we’d met years earlier, or months later, but I’m glad I know you now.
I want to know more about you.
I want you to know more about me
I want a lot when it comes to you, Bernadette. It surprises me. You surprise me.
I wish you were here in bed with me now.
I wish you were in bed with me all the time.
I want to crash through this wall between us.
I want to break all of your rules.
I want strings.
I’m getting attached.
You’re already the best girlfriend I’ve ever had, and you don’t even want to be.
You are so talented, and I wish you were painting again.
Your paintings are mysterious and beautiful and calming and exciting, just like you.
You were so stunning in that dress, the first time I saw you.
I wanted so badly to kiss you that time when the power was out.
I want to kiss you right now, dammit.
Bernadette. Come back to bed.
I can barely read the words anymore because tears are squirting out of the corners of my eyes like windshield wiper fluid. These are definitely the best sentiments I have ever seen written on a Post-it Note. But I have no idea when he wrote them. Obviously it was before he saw Vanessa again, before I told him about Hudson Valley.
What I do know is that he felt these things at some point.
What I do know is that despite how wonderful he is, I’m still somehow afraid of all the things I feel for him.
What I do know is that I need to get back to my first love and become my whole self again. I need to find the artist that I buried, back where it was born, and finally open the fucking channels so that I can love Matt fearlessly and with my whole heart. The way that he deserves to be loved. With all the colors and shades and tones and textures.
If he ever wants me again.
23
Matt
It has been a full week since I moved into this place, and I haven’t even seen my neighbors yet. I like it as much as I can like a place that has absolutely zero Bernadette Farmers in it. I really think she’d love Park Slope. If you manage not to trip over all the baby strollers, you can really appreciate the historic brownstones and down-to-earth bohemian vibe. Sitting here, staring at her Into the Woods painting, both subdues and exacerbates the longing to be with her.
I’ve always been able to compartmentalize and disappear into my job when I don’t want to think about something else, but I’m not about to go to the office on the weekend just to get away from these thoughts. Not yet, anyway. Whenever I’m home, Daisy begs me to let her out into the little garden area—I’m pretty sure it’s not because she wants to be outside bu
t because she can’t stand to hear me play “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” by Jeff Buckley on my guitar one more time.
As I quietly sing the last lines, when I get to “Oh, love I’ve waited for you/Lover you should’ve come over,” I realize just how passive these words are. Am I really the guy who waits for love? I am now able to grasp just what a stubborn ass I’m being, doing the same thing that I did with Vanessa—just giving her space—when I don’t feel the same way about Bernadette as I did with Vanessa. I want her. I want her in my space. I always have. I’m sure as I’ve ever been sure of anything that I always will.
I pick up my phone, watching Daisy perk up in her outdoor bed through the patio door. She stares up at me, and it’s like she knows I’m finally calling Bernadette. She gets up and comes to the door. I let her in. She looks up at me hesitantly: “You better say the right thing this time, buddy.”
It goes to voice mail after four rings. I don’t usually leave messages unless it’s a business call. What the fuck is the right thing to say to a voice recording at a time like this? I clear my throat. “Hi, it’s Matt McGovern, Esquire. I just wanted to say that I hope you let me know if you’re ever in the neighborhood here, in Brooklyn. We’d love to see you… Actually, fuck that—we’d love to see you no matter what neighborhood you’re in. I’d love to see you. I need to see you. I want to talk to you. Call me.”
I hang up and look down at my dog. She blinks and shakes her head. I know what she’s thinking: “You’re going to have to do better than that, Loverboy. This is the woman who bought me winter boots in the summer.”
I text her all the sad-face emojis before leaving food in Daisy’s bowl and ordering an Uber to the Upper West Side.
Brooklyn Bridge is hilariously jammed today, and I’m kicking myself for not taking the subway, because it’s nearly an hour later when we finally get to where I need to be. By the time the Prius has turned the corner onto her street, I haven’t gotten a response to the call or text, but I know what I want to say to Bernadette. I just hope I’ll get the chance to say it to her face. Hopping out of the car, I’m at the front door of the townhouse in three long strides.
She doesn’t answer the buzzer after the first or second time I’ve ringed her. She might be in the basement doing laundry. I hope she’s in the basement doing laundry and not making out with her boss by some lake or hiding in her apartment and ignoring me.
I try my Aunt Dolly’s buzzer, on a whim. I’m not even sure if she’s back in town yet.
“Who is it?” My aunt sounds so tough through the intercom, as if only thugs would be buzzing her on a Saturday morning.
“Aunt Dolly? It’s Matt.”
I hear her sigh. “Oh, Matt. Good. I know why you’re here. Come on up, my dear.”
When I reach the fourth floor, my aunt is standing by her open door. She is wearing a 70s-era pantsuit that probably used to belong to Diana Ross. It has been a while since I’ve seen her in person, and I’m surprised by how happy I am to see her. She holds out her arms for a hug.
“My darling boy,” she says, patting my back. “You look like crap.”
“I haven’t been sleeping much this past week.”
She nods knowingly. “Thank you for the teapot. It’s lovely. Bernadette isn’t here.”
I reach out for the doorframe to brace myself. “Did she move to Hudson Valley?”
“No, silly. She isn’t going to work for Sebastian Smith anymore.”
Once again, when it comes to Bernadette, I release a breath that I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
“She took a job at a gallery. She’ll be working for my friend Anita. Come inside.”
I do. It’s strange, being here with my aunt. I’ve had sex so many times in her apartment, and no matter how old I am or how much she encouraged it, I feel like a guilty teenager. But I can’t really think about that now.
“Oh. You know Anita?” Of course she does. My aunt knows everyone.
“Yes, why? Do you?” She wrinkles her brow at me, probably wondering if I’ve slept with that woman.
“Not really. I met her once. When I was with Bernadette. So, she’s working for Anita now?”
She leads me to the sofa in the living room and takes a seat next to me. She’s talking to me like I’m a little kid who’s finding out he doesn’t get to go to camp this summer or that there’s no Santa Claus. It’s doing nothing to calm me down. Inside my brain, I’m screaming.
“Not yet. She starts next month. She still has to help Sebastian transition to his new home and find him another assistant, and Lord knows that won’t be a walk in the park. I only know this because she sent me an email right before I got home. She said that she’ll be out of town until next week and it might be difficult to reach her.”
My insides clench up again. “Do you think she’s in Hudson Valley?”
My aunt looks at me with an expression that I so rarely see on her or anyone’s face when they look at me: pity.
“No, I don’t. Now, I don’t know any details of why you two aren’t together anymore, because Bernadette is nothing if not discreet. But she did say that she’s unclear as to where things stand with the two of you. I know you’re not exactly a spoiled golden boy, Matt. You work hard, you’re a good guy, but you haven’t really had to fight for anything in your life. If you want to make it work with Bernadette, you’re going to have to fight for this one.”
It’s possible, very possible, that my aunt understands me better than my parents do.
“Way ahead of you, Aunt Dolly.”
“Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge on a Saturday is a nice gesture, but that’s not going to cut it.”
“I’ll cross all the bridges for her.”
She smiles, her lips pursed. “That’s the cheesiest thing I ever want to hear you say, but good for you.”
“Can you look after Daisy for one night?”
“It would be my great honor.”
“Okay. I’ll bring her back here on my way to the airport.”
“You think she went to the farm?”
“I’m sure of it.” I’m up and nearly out the door when I remember to say, “Oh hey, and thanks. For introducing us.”
“It’s my pleasure. Thanks for buying new sheets for the guest bed.” She winks.
That’s my cue to leave.
For a guy who spent most of his New York life sticking to the lower half of Manhattan up until a few months ago, I think I deserve some kind of romantic medal for going back and forth between Brooklyn and the Upper West Side twice in one morning and then to LaGuardia for an afternoon flight.
I can’t believe I’m rushing to the airport, like the end of a fucking movie that I’d never watch, but I swear all I can hear is cheesy music swelling in my ears and all I can see is a montage of all my favorite moments with Bernadette. There are a lot of them. And not all of them are naked, either.
It takes less than two hours to fly into Burlington, Vermont, but it feels like two years. When we land, I turn on my phone as soon as I can, but there’s still no message from Bernadette. I know in my soul that she’s at her parents’ farm, and I know they get shitty cell phone reception there, and I know in my heart that she’s probably in some barn painting something amazing and I just need to get to her.
I panic when I get into the cab because I don’t know where to tell the driver to go. I don’t even have the number for her parents’ landline. I could call my aunt to see if she has it, but even if she did there’s no guarantee that anyone would answer.
“Do you know where Good Culture Farm is?” I ask the driver, because I might as well ask.
“No,” he says. “Do you?” He doesn’t offer to look it up. He must be from New York.
Then I remember that I put the farm’s address into my Waze app when we drove there. The driver tells me he can’t drive that far out of the city, and that’s when I know for sure that he’s from New York. So I have to get back out, go back into the airport, and rent a fucking car.
In Vermont, in Manhattan, or Brooklyn—all roads lead to Bernadette.
24
Bernadette
I’ve been working on a painting in the paint barn for forty-eight hours, with only a few hours of sleep each night. It’s not even all that big, just 18x24, but it has been years since I’ve done figures on a canvas. I’m working off a photo of Matt and Daisy on my phone, one I took of them when they were running around out in the field, backlit by golden rays of sunlight. There’s movement and stillness at the same time. It’s so beautiful, it takes my breath away, breaks my heart, and fills me with joy all at once. That’s a lot to try to capture in a painting, but I’m determined to do it. There are darker colors seeping through lighter colors to the surface and a lot of blending in with gold to smooth the edges of different colors together so that they quietly come alive in the place where they meet.
Of all the things my parents have said to me that drove me nuts, the one thing I will never hear them say is “You need to stop working on that painting.” My dad comes out to offer advice or praise, and my mom brings me fresh berry lemonade and meals. They know exactly why I’m here and why I have to do this now, and I’m so grateful. The days are long here in July, and as I stand here holding a brush and palette, wearing my T-shirt and overall shorts, with my hair up in a crazy bun and paint all over me—I feel really bad about criticizing my parents for letting the day-to-day things slide. It’s really hard to step away from a project when you’re in the zone. I had forgotten how it feels.
This barn is completely set up for painting, with easels and drop cloths and every size and type of canvas, all the paints and brushes, lots of different kinds of lamps, and great natural light during the day when the door is wide open. I’m about to step away to get some fresh air and check my phone, when I see a shadowy backlit figure approaching. I’d know that shadowy figure and sexy gait anywhere; I just can’t tell if I’m hallucinating from all the paint fumes or not.
The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends Page 42