The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  But two seconds later, she shakes herself out of the reverie and I can see her trying to rein in her fear of that big magic. I get it. She doesn’t know if she can handle it. Then her expression changes again and I get the feeling she’s about to surprise both of us.

  “So, I don’t usually do this, but … here’s my number.” She hands me a folded-up piece of notepaper that already has her name and number written on it. “My roommate dared me to give a guy that I like my number even if he doesn’t ask me for it. So just in case there’s a hurricane or a zombie apocalypse in the next hour or so, I’ll get this out of the way now.”

  “Thank you. I would have asked you for your number anyway.”

  “Well, that’s nice to know.”

  I reach for a napkin on the bar and pull out the pen from my pocket.

  “I don’t usually give beautiful women who don’t like whiskey my number, but in case of hurricane or zombie apocalypse … This is my cell phone, if you need assistance.” I hand her the napkin with my name and number on it.

  “I appreciate it. I keep a pretty cool head during natural disasters, but I lie awake at night worrying about zombies.” She carefully folds up the napkin and places it in her purse.

  “I can definitely help you get to sleep if necessary.”

  I take off my leather jacket, expose the ink, so she knows it’s not just a long-hair situation she’d have to deal with.

  Her eyes widen as they scan the parts of my arms that aren’t hidden by my T-shirt. I can tell she likes what she sees, but she gets a whiff of something that she does not like when I move my jacket to my lap.

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Not much anymore. I used to … up until an hour ago.”

  “You really shouldn’t smoke.”

  “I have been meaning to quit.”

  “You really should.” Her spine straightens and she places her glass down on the bar again and actually raises her index finger in front of my face and wags it. “Smoking damages nearly every organ in your body, you know, not just your lungs. And not just your organs—your brain and your bones and your cardiovascular system! It’s shortening your lifespan by more than a decade. There’s poison in tobacco you know. It’s not just the nicotine, you’re inhaling carbon monoxide and tar! I just don’t know why anyone would do that to themselves—not to mention the people around them. And cancer—do you want to talk about cancer, Chase McKay?”

  “I really don’t.”

  I think I just quit smoking.

  “Point taken. You got some sort of rule about not kissing smokers, Aimee?”

  The lighting in here may be dim, but I can see her blushing even harder. She clears her throat. “I did … up until a minute ago.”

  I think I just quit other women.

  When I sit up straight on this barstool, Aimee and I are about the same height. She’s staring at my mouth and her lips are parted. I’m not aware of how much time has passed since she walked in here, but I’ve been wanting to kiss her for what feels like forever. Leaning towards her, I notice her chest expanding as she prepares herself for my kiss. Just when she starts to lean in towards me too, a hand slaps her on the shoulder.

  “Aim! Honey! I am so fucking sorry I’m late! That fucking F train has it in for me, I swear.”

  The woman whips her around for a hug while giving me the once-over.

  I can’t tell if Aimee is frustrated or relieved by the interruption—maybe both. Maybe I’m feeling the same way too. Her friend sizes-up the situation. I can’t tell if she’s impressed or amused or both.

  “Well, fuck me,” she mutters.

  “Uh, Roxy, this is Chase. Chase—Roxy.”

  “Hello there, Chase.”

  Shaking Roxy’s hand, I utter a friendly “Hey, how are you?” but I turn my attention right back to Aimee. I can tell that Aimee’s probably used to men gawking at her friend, and I just won a few points for not being most men. But Aimee is not most women. Not to me. Not tonight.

  “I was just encouraging Chase here to quit smoking.”

  “Is that what you were doing? Can I just borrow Aimee for one second?” She pulls Aimee a couple of feet away and yells in her ear.

  I, along with the whole bar, can hear Roxy tell her: “You need to take it down a notch, Professor McGonagall.”

  “What?!”

  “I saw the way you were lecturing him when I walked in. You might as well just flash him your granny panties.”

  “What?! No, I’m being a sexy teacher.”

  “No. You’re not.”

  Yeah. She is, Roxy. She is.

  Then I overhear Roxy utter the word “bet” before Aimee shushes her with a murderous look. Roxy walks off to join a group of people she knows, without another word. Aimee watches her walk away before removing her coat and draping it over the barstool next to me.

  “Sorry about that,” she says.

  I can see the outline of a black bra beneath her tight creamy white sweater and I’m pretty sure I’d forgive her for absolutely anything.

  “Sorry about lecturing you.” She stares at her hands. “It’s none of my business, I just think you’re great and I want you to live, and not have to breathe through a hole in your throat.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. And thanks.”

  She looks over at me and pouts.

  We both laugh.

  “Can I get you another drink?”

  “Yes! Dear God, yes!” The voice belongs to my best friend Keaton. I had completely forgotten that I was here waiting for him. Aimee is quite the distraction. She may be the distraction I’ve been waiting for my whole life.

  “You would not believe the night I’ve had,” he continues, shaking his head. “You don’t know how lucky you are to have the parents you have, man.” He really does look beaten down. As beaten down as a guy can look in a bespoke suit and coat and shoes that cost more than my rent. And then he notices Aimee, and the outline of that black bra beneath her tight creamy white sweater. “And I cannot believe how much better my night just got. Hello there.” He holds his hand out. Instead of shaking Aimee’s hand, he places his other hand over it and just stares at her.

  Fucking hell.

  “This is Aimee. I was just asking if I can get her another drink.”

  “Aimee,” he says. “I’m Keaton Bridges. Hi.” I know that tone of voice. Every time Keaton switches to that golden tone of voice, he has gone home with the woman on the receiving end of it. I’ve got that sinking feeling and my whole body clenches up. If I didn’t love him so much, I’d already have kicked his teeth in by now.

  He doesn’t even realize he’s cockblocking me, because it just wouldn’t occur to him that he and I would want the same thing. It rarely happens. We both wanted to go to Wharton. We both wanted to start my business. One of us did both of those things by studying and working his ass off, and one of us had the money to do whatever the fuck he wanted.

  I watch how Aimee responds to Keaton’s immediate full-court press. She’s so nice and polite. It’s hard to tell at first if she’s being friendly with the best friend, like I was with Roxy, or if she’s falling for this shit.

  “Why don’t I get you a drink.” Keaton is really laying it on thick. “What have you got there?” He sees the tumbler behind her on the counter and grimaces. “Do not tell me he made you drink Irish whiskey? That stuff is nasty.”

  “I think I’m acquiring a taste for it, actually,” she says.

  “Admirable, but I bet you’re more of a…Moscow Mule kind of girl.”

  She twists her lips to the side and glances over at me apologetically. “I do love Moscow Mules.”

  “Denny!” Keaton leans in against the bar, right between me and Aimee. “Two Moscow Mules and another whiskey for my friend here.” He stays in place between me and Aimee and says, “Damn, Aimee. You smell incredible. That’s Chanel, isn’t it?”

  “It is. You’ve got a good nose!”

  What follows is the kind of conversation that
only Keaton can have with a woman. About his grandmother being friends with Coco Chanel. It might be true and it might be total horseshit, but he sells it like the best car salesman. I know this guy so well. I know when he’s making an effort with a woman and when he’s on auto-pilot, and he’s actually making an effort with Aimee. I can see, out of the corner of my eye, that Aimee is trying to maneuver herself so she can include me in the conversation, but it’s no use. Everything’s fading away and I’m retreating inside where I can have a tactical meeting with myself in my board room.

  Thank God I went to business and law school. I’ve learned how to make rational, informed decisions. My heart’s telling me this is a woman worth fighting for, but my brain’s telling me that’s not my heart talking. It’s my dick. It’s the whiskey. It’s the strings of warm white lights. It’s the Jackson fucking Browne song.

  It’s not that she isn’t worth fighting for. It’s that I have to pick my battles. And I am not going to pick a battle with my best friend and business partner. Not now, anyway.

  I’ve known Keaton for nearly a decade. He let me live in his apartment in Philadelphia for four years when we were at Wharton and nearly kicked me out once when he was convinced that his girlfriend was in love with me. She wasn’t. He didn’t. We got through it. I founded a company with him less than two years ago—a company that he invested the seed money for, and I need him on my side when we’re voting at a board meeting soon. I’ve known Aimee for less than half an hour and had one drink with her. If she doesn’t want to kiss a guy who smokes, then she won’t be kissing a guy who smokes. Not tonight, anyway. Even though I never want to see another cigarette again in my life.

  Just because I’ve never experienced love at first sight before, it doesn’t mean it’ll never happen again. I see how this is going to go and I need to leave sooner rather than later, so I don’t end up in a pissing contest.

  I swallow the whiskey that Keaton ordered for me, stand up and put my jacket back on. I shake Aimee’s hand and say, “It was a pleasure meeting you. Enjoy your Moscow Mule.” The look on her pretty face could break my heart if I’d let it. But I won’t let it.

  I pat Keaton on the back and tell him I’m heading back to the office. He barely protests. He doesn’t want to lose Aimee’s focus. I don’t blame him. I didn’t either. But I will.

  The road to a successful business is littered with sacrifices, and Aimee may not be the first, but she is certainly my favorite thing that I’ll be letting go of to make this business work.

  And so, I’ve heard some good music and had just the right number of drinks and met a woman who could have mattered to me more than anyone—in another life. I’ve made a choice, and it might be a bad choice, but it’s the right one.

  I walk back out into the surprisingly cold night, but I’m not alone. You’re never alone at night in New York, and Brooklyn is still so fucking beautiful. I feel a chill, but it’s got nothing to do with the temperature. It’s knowing that if I turned around and looked back through that door that I just walked out of, I’d see Aimee watching me. If I stayed there looking back at her long enough, she’d follow me outside and leave Keaton behind. I know it deep in my lungs and all my organs and my brain and my bones and my cardiovascular system, just as well as I know that I’m going to keep walking away, even though I’ll be thinking about those deep blue eyes long after I close mine tonight.

  TONIGHT

  2

  Aimee

  **ONE MONTH LATER**

  I’ve been wearing yoga pants all day, because I was hoping it would make me feel more Zen about everything, but it turns out it’s not that easy to feel Zen when you’re frantically stuffing your face with donuts. It’s just so disappointing that no matter how delicious and comforting they are, they all start to taste the same after your third or fourth or fifth. No matter how much icing or sprinkles or filling, they’re still so simple. A quick fix. They’ll never wake up your palate with breathtaking contradictory flavors and leave a smooth, complex, haunting aftertaste like certain other vices do.

  This has been the longest two-day weekend ever and it’s nowhere near over yet.

  Also, my roommate keeps handing me bottles of beer and taking them away when I’ve finished so I can’t keep track of how many I’ve had. Beer and donuts are a terrible combination, but also strangely appropriate for the occasion. I lick the melted chocolate icing from my thumb and call out: “Roxy! How many beers have I had?!”

  “If you’re sober enough to ask without slurring, it’s not enough!” she calls out, from the bathroom. I can tell from her voice that she’s curling her eyelashes. She has Make-Up Face voice. She’s listening to Prince. That means she’s getting ready to go out, which means she’s getting ready to convince me to go out. I do appreciate that she stayed in with me on Friday and Saturday night, but …

  “I start a new job tomorrow!”

  “Exactly! We’re celebrating. And you need to drink one beer for every month that you’ve been celibate.”

  “I am not going to drink six bottles of beer on a Sunday night, Roxy.”

  “Fine. Then one beer for every week you wasted being polite to that bonehead.”

  “I’m not going to drink four beers either. I’m serious! How many have I had?”

  “Three, sweetie. Only three.”

  I exhale and then polish off my third bottle of beer.

  “He’s not a bonehead,” I say meekly.

  He really isn’t.

  Keaton is good-looking and he looks amazing in a suit. Keaton is charming, in the way that eight-year-old boys are charming. A good guy. But not the guy for me.

  When he showed up at the bar that first night that I met him and Chase, I had the exact opposite response to him as I did to his best friend. When I saw Chase, my body immediately went on high alert. I assumed he was the lead singer of some grunge band that I wasn’t cool enough to recognize, but I could totally see myself screaming up at him from a mosh pit, begging for his attention. When he saw me and held my gaze, I just kept walking toward him. I’ve never done that before in my life—walked up to some stranger in a bar and started talking? He made me feel like some heightened version of myself, like an awesome drug that I’d probably never try. I was turned on. Actually switched on, like a lightbulb that had been set to dim forever and then BAM! Here’s all that electricity we’ve been holding back from you! How do you like that?! It felt like the difference between walking around your hometown and walking around Manhattan for the first time. Suddenly you’re so aware and awake and anything could happen.

  I liked it and I was afraid of it.

  When Keaton showed up, he felt familiar and safe. It was like getting off a roller coaster. I still had the dizzying buzz from flirting with Chase, but I was stepping back onto solid ground again and needing to find my balance. But it’s not like I didn’t want to get back on that roller coaster! If I were put in a situation where I had to make a choice, I would have chosen Chase. But he took himself out of the equation.

  It’s not that I wasn’t flattered by Keaton’s attention.

  He’s like a purebred puppy who doesn’t understand the word “no.” He’s exasperating, but you can’t hate him because at the end of the day, he’s still a cute puppy. And I’m too old to date puppies.

  Which is why I would have rather dated Chase. The day after meeting him, I sent a text to the number he’d given me.

  It was great meeting you and Irish whiskey at Bitters last night! Haven’t seen any zombies yet, but you never know…

  Cute, right?

  No response.

  Ever.

  I mean. Maybe he gave me a wrong number. But I had a feeling it was a Bro Code thing. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.

  A few days later, I had a phone conversation with Keaton and I learned more about their relationship, so I could certainly see why Chase didn’t want to rock the boat.

  I liked Keaton. I really did. I especially liked that he had such a cool best fri
end. But I also hated that he was friends with Chase. Because I really liked Chase.

  But I’m a nice, polite Midwesterner, and Keaton is persistent. Every few days he’d call or text to invite me out to all these great restaurants. And all the flowers he sent to my office? Oh lord, so many beautiful flowers. And Wicked. He said he could get us greats seats at Wicked on Broadway. Roxy and I always used to sing “Defying Gravity” when we were drunk at karaoke bars in college. That was a tough one to say ‘no’ to, but I did.

  And then I found out that I was being laid off. The job that I had moved out here for—at the prestigious business consulting firm—had to eliminate my position. So I had a lot more on my mind than dating.

  The next few times he asked me out, I gave him the excuse of being stressed-out from job-hunting. On Thursday, I found him waiting for me outside my apartment when I came home from a job interview. He had a lunch reservation at a great restaurant by the river and wanted me to go with him right then. He was very charming and persuasive, but I just couldn’t go out with him if there was ever a chance that I could be with Chase. I didn’t tell him that, of course. What I finally told him, very clearly, was that I liked him but I didn’t think we were a good match and I really didn’t want to lead him on. He seemed to think I was joking at first. I’m guessing no one’s ever said those words to him before.

  For a few seconds, I saw this storm of indignant anger in his eyes, and I understood why Chase didn’t want to take any chances. But as quickly as that look in his eyes appeared, it was replaced by polite words of thanks, a sincere handshake, and a genuine “Good luck with everything. Let’s keep in touch. I hope to see you again sometime.”

  He was classy. I felt good about everything. I wondered if and when he’d mention to his best friend that I’d totally refused to date him. I wondered how long I should wait before “accidentally” running into Chase in the neighborhood after subtly and ever-so elegantly stalking him.