The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  Just as Nora is wrapping up her trip down agony lane on the karaoke machine, I excuse myself from Greg and tell Julia to get the cake ready. She dashes into the break room, and I stand by the Yamaha keyboard that stays set-up in a corner 24/7 for our spontaneous office happy hours, birthday lunches, those long work days and nights that require a little tension-breaking, and weekends when I’m here alone playing Al Green to an empty room instead of serenading the woman I can’t stop thinking about.

  I hoot and holler when Nora finally shuts up as I take a seat at the keyboard. Not everyone has finished eating sushi yet, but it’s time for Aimee to witness another one of my talents. I play the intro to “Bohemian Rhapsody” as a lead-in to “Happy Birthday,” to get people’s attention. Stealthily glancing over at Aimee as everyone crowds around, I notice her angrily biting her lower lip while staring at my fingers.

  Trust me, Aimee, these fingers would rather be celebrating you right now.

  When Julia wheels in the birthday cake on a little cart, I start singing the birthday song. I’m not saying I’m necessarily a good singer, but the McKay family has its share of Irish baritones who’ve had their pick of the lasses once they’ve taken over the pub piano. It’s how my dad won my mom’s heart, so the story goes. It’s not like I’m trying to torture Aimee right now—it’s just “Happy Birthday.” I think of it more as a promissory note with a high interest rate and an unspecified maturity date.

  I resist the urge to play “No Scrubs” by TLC after Tyler blows out the candles, because he didn’t try to hide that he was wishing for Aimee. Instead, I get up and stand between them when Tyler’s cutting and passing out the cake.

  “Mmm, you know what would go great with this?” Tyler says. “An espresso.”

  Aimee sticks her tongue out and makes a face, much like she did the first time she tried Irish whiskey. “Blech!” she says. “I hate espresso.”

  “Aw come on! You just haven’t had a good one. I should take you to Seven Point, on Washington. Australian-style espresso. So good.”

  I snort. “Please. All due respect to Aussies, but if it ain’t done Italian-style, it ain’t espresso.”

  “Still,” Tyler says, “it’s a cute location. You’d like it.”

  “I’ll definitely check it out if I’m ever in the mood for something incredibly bitter that sticks to my tongue and makes me gag,” Aimee mutters.

  While Tyler is still recovering from the mental image of her gagging on something bitter, I grab Aimee’s arm and drag her sweet body into the break room. “Somebody needs to set you straight,” I grumble. This is who I am now—the guy who grumbles and yanks her away from other dudes. She allows me to pull her, but as soon as we’re inside the only room in our unit that actually has four walls and a door that you can’t see through, she releases herself from my grasp.

  I don’t bother to look back, because I know she’s scowling and frustrated with me. If I see that pouty mouth, I will make a very bad executive decision right here on the counter. I roll up my sleeves and start working the espresso machine and slamming espresso glasses like a boss. Like a jealous, possessive, sexually frustrated boss. I am the near-boiling water being forced over that ground coffee at nine times the normal amount of atmospheric pressure.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, her hushed voice is deep and raspy, like after she’s come five times. She doesn’t sound angry, just genuinely confused.

  “Pulling you a shot of espresso. I overheard you talking to your mom earlier. Everything alright?”

  “Yes. Well, not exactly. She’s got sort of a stressful situation brewing. Nothing dangerous or anything. But it will be fine.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She is quiet for a few seconds. “You can’t do this. You can’t ignore me and not call me and then flirt with me whenever you feel like it and drag me off like a caveman when your employees are being friendly with me and then ask me about my mom.”

  “Oh yeah? How should we deal with this? What are your suggestions? You want me to take you up to the roof deck and fuck you on our lunch break and then pretend I barely know you when we’re in the office surrounded by all of my employees and my best friend who’s still hung up on you?”

  “Yes!”

  “Beautiful, I want that too, believe me. But I know I won’t be able to hide anything if we play it like that, and neither will you.”

  “Well, you’re doing an awfully good job of acting like nothing ever happened between us.”

  “Am I? Because I’m doing a really shitty job of thinking about anything but what happened between us last Sunday. Like what you said to me at the bar, and holding your hand while we walked through Luna Park, and making you come on the beach and the way you made those kids who just got engaged feel like a royal couple even though they were total strangers, and what you did to me in the shower at the hotel, and how fucking beautiful you looked when you were sleeping. That was then. This is now. One day, if we survive this, we’ll be able to do all of that again anytime we want to. Just. Not. Now.”

  I grab a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, twist it open and hand it to her. “Take a sip of this to cleanse the palate.”

  She furrows her brow, but does as I say, then hands the bottle back to me.

  I pull the espresso directly into two glasses and then give one to her, with a little spoon. “Smell it, stir it quickly, take a sip. Savor the crema. Let it coat your tongue.”

  Her eyes are wet, and she doesn’t stop staring at me while stirring and then taking a sip. I lean against the counter, watching her. When she closes her eyes and licks the crema from her lips with her tongue, I know she gets it.

  “Gawd, that’s good. It’s not bitter.”

  “No. It’s complicated. But worth the trouble.”

  She scoffs. “We’ll see about that.”

  I don’t know if she’s talking about the espresso or me or both, and I don’t care. I just want to watch her lick her lips for about an hour and then go back to work. She gulps down the rest of it. She makes a sour face and sticks her tongue out, just like the first time she tried my whiskey. And then she laughs. God, I love that laugh.

  “It’ll be worth it. I promise,” I say, reaching out to push her hair from her face.

  She jerks back. “Don’t touch me unless you’re really going to touch me.”

  For one hot second, I consider really touching her, until I hear someone clear their throat, and Aimee and I both freeze.

  Nora is standing in the doorway, a huge grin on her face, like it’s her birthday and she just unwrapped a life-size edible Channing Tatum doll.

  “How long have you been standing there?” I snap.

  “I just walked in,” she says, completely unable to stop grinning.

  I don’t believe her, but it also doesn’t matter how long she’s been there, because no matter what she heard or saw, it was too much.

  16

  Chase

  Since the break room incident, I have tried harder to keep my distance from Aimee. She very sweetly sent me a text from her personal phone afterwards, telling me that she would handle Nora. The next day, she very sweetly sent me another text informing me that she had handled it and that we don’t have to worry about Nora telling Keaton anything. I didn’t ask for clarification. I thanked her and then continued to keep my distance. It’s now the end of the third week of Aimee’s temporary stay at the SnapLegal offices, and the only thing this distance has created is even more desire to be near her. All the time.

  As a founding CEO, I answer questions all day long, prioritize and try to find solutions. But the one thing that I can’t seem to answer is: What’s more important to me—the success of my company, Keaton’s friendship, or a relationship with Aimee? And why can’t I have all three of them now?

  It’s Friday night, and a few of us are going to have to pull an all-nighter to get the new website pages up on schedule. I’ve given everyone on the team a ninety-minute break for dinner before we reco
nvene at the office, so I do what I always do when I’m questioning myself and I’ve finally had enough of drinking scotch at home while staring out a window. I’ve come to the restaurant to see my parents. My mother’s face and soothing voice is minestrone soup for the soul, and my dad’s tough love is whiskey for the heart.

  When I was second-guessing my decision to make Keaton my CFO, listing all of the reasons no one else would give him that position, all they asked was if I trust him as a person. A lot of people would make a qualified Chief Financial Officer, but how many of them could I trust with my first baby? Even before I step inside, I know what it is I’m hoping to hear from them. Sometimes it just helps to hear someone else say it.

  Locanda Graziella has remained an institution in Park Slope, in a saturated and ever-changing market. With a prime corner location on a pretty residential intersection and warm atmosphere, it’s never without customers. It’s a nice night, so most guests are seated outside on the wraparound patio. I find Maria, the middle-aged hostess who has worked here for two decades, standing at her post, covertly scrolling through Instagram on her phone. She was my de facto babysitter for years. She doesn’t even look up when I approach her.

  “What are you doing here alone on a Friday night? You’re a good-looking guy. Go Tinder someone.”

  “That how you greet all your customers? I don’t know how my parents stay in business.”

  “I saw you crossing the street, all brooding-like. You know who else saw you? Three hot chicks who were crossing the street and you didn’t even notice them.”

  “Why would I when I know the hottest chick in Brooklyn is waiting for me here?”

  She finally gives me a hug. “Oh fuck you. You working out more or something? You look healthier.”

  “I quit smoking.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I did.”

  “How?”

  “Iron will.”

  “Why?”

  “You kidding?”

  “Ohhhh.” She gives me her knowing look. “A girl.” She smacks my chest with the back of her hand. “No wonder you’re so broody. Chase McKay. Finally got caught.”

  “I’ll just seat myself, thanks.”

  I head for the back-corner table, nodding at the few other patrons inside.

  Maria follows me. “You want me to get your mom? I think your dad’s out back on the phone.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ll just be here, brooding.”

  I sit down and pull out my personal phone, open up Aimee’s text messages to re-read them like some teenage girl. She is so fucking sweet and funny, it hurts. I didn’t ask her to stay at the office tonight, although it wouldn’t have been outside her duties as project manager at all. I just felt it would be too tempting, having her around at night. Even with five other people there.

  My mom comes out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her white apron. She’s a foot shorter than me but she fills every room she’s in with her big, glowing personality. I get up to hug her, letting her warmth permeate me.

  “Hey, Ma.”

  “Il mio bel ragazzo,” she coos. My beautiful boy. We sit down and she reaches across the bistro table to push my hair out of my face. “Good,” she says, approving. “Good length. You gonna stay and eat?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got an hour or so.”

  “Jimmy! Jimmy!” My mom calls the waiter over.

  “Hey Chase! Good to see you, man!”

  “New ink?” I ask, eyeing his forearms.

  “You like? Your ma doesn’t.”

  My mother waves her hand in her face. “Too much! Too much! Both of you.”

  “I like it.”

  “Put in his usual order, please Jimmy.”

  “You got it.”

  As soon as Jimmy’s gone, my mom’s staring at me. “Whatsa matter, uh?” Her voice is low and deep, and all of a sudden, so Italian. “You look tired. You working too hard again?” And then she stares at me harder and clutches at her chest. “Dio mio! No! Chase? You’re in love!”

  How is it these two women can tell in three seconds, but my best friend and the woman I’m falling for don’t have a clue?

  “Shhh. Ma.”

  “Don’t you shush me! My only son is in love again, finally, with something other than work! I should be singing from the roof! Who is she? Where is she? Why you’re not telling me anything?!”

  “If you’d just give me a chance …”

  She mimes buttoning up her mouth and gestures for me to proceed.

  “Her name is Aimee. You’d like her. She’s sweet, but she’s got the fire in her too … I met her over a month ago. At Bitters. But then Keaton showed up, and I could tell he really liked her, so I decided to back off.”

  “What’s this backing off? What’s that mean?”

  “I mean I left, so he could keep talking to her.”

  “She liked Keaton better than you?” My mother is appalled by this notion.

  “Turns out she didn’t, but you know how he is when it comes to girls.”

  “I never understand why you treat him like he’s a spoiled little boy. If he’s your friend, he’s you’re friend. Simple.”

  “I thought I was making it easier for everyone. Turns out it made things more complicated. She didn’t want to go out with him and then I ran into her again a month later and we had one beautiful night together.”

  “Ohhh good! So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is, it turns out she was hired to do some consulting work for us at the office.”

  “Uh huh …” Her voice goes even deeper, and I can tell she’s still waiting to hear what the problem is.

  “Hey! Chase, my boy! Why didn’t you tell me he was here?” My dad’s booming voice competes with the Sinatra from the house speakers.

  “He just got here!”

  I get up to give my dad a quick hug.

  “Where’s your drink?”

  “Don’t have one yet.”

  My dad grabs a bottle of Redbreast and a tumbler from the bar. “Why’s he so tired? Girl trouble?”

  “Hmm. Making trouble for himself, this one.”

  “What else is new?” My dad slams the bottle and glass on the table in front of me, sits down in the chair near my mom. “She married?”

  “No.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Lives somewhere else?”

  “No.”

  “So? What’s the trouble?”

  “His head is what’s the trouble! Too much thinking, not enough living.”

  “I heard that!” Keaton’s voice is unexpected, but I’m hardly surprised. He’s on a roll when it comes to showing up at the wrong time lately. But he’s so happy to see us, I can hardly resent him.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I have to meet Quinn for a drink in an hour, I thought I’d grab a bite.”

  “Who’s this lucky girl, Quinn? It’s a girl, yes?”

  Keaton laughs. “It’s a girl, yes. A very pretty girl.”

  “A socialite,” I add.

  “A fancy girl!”

  “Sounds like trouble to me,” my dad says, as he gets up to take a call on his cell phone. “Chase here’s got girl troubles.”

  “Oh yeah? I didn’t realize there was a girl to trouble you.”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Let’s get you a drink.”

  “The usual for you boys, yes?” My mother gets up and gives Keaton a hug and a kiss.

  “It’s good to see you, Graziella.”

  She pats him on the arm. “You are always welcome here, tesoro.” She blows me a kiss, and Keaton takes her vacated seat.

  He calls out to Jimmy, who’s behind the bar, asking for a gin and tonic.

  “Look at you, out of the office and I didn’t even drag you here.”

  “I’m heading back in an hour.”

  “Why?”

  I laugh. “The new w
eb pages go up tomorrow. We’re fine-tuning.”

  “Oh yeah. You need me there?”

  I laugh. As if. “We’re good, thanks.”

  “Aimee gonna be there?”

  I shake my head. “We can reach her if we need her.”

  He nods. “Yeah. Lucky you.”

  I manage to swiftly change the subject and spend the next half hour shooting the shit with him and remembering why Keaton is my best friend. It’s good, even though it makes me feel guiltier and more hesitant about wanting to be with Aimee. I try not to ask about Quinn too much, so it doesn’t seem like I’m pushing him to be with her. He sounds pretty whipped, and not as happy as he could be. But that’s what Keaton’s like when he’s dating. Once he’s got the girl, he gets anxious and feels trapped. The pursuit is definitely his favorite part. To be honest, I usually like him more when he’s in pursuit of someone or something. At least he’s working. As long as he doesn’t try to pursue Aimee again, we’re all good.

  He gets a text from Quinn, telling him that she’s on her way to the lounge. Early. He wipes his mouth with the napkin and reaches for his wallet. “The lady beckons,” he says.

  “You don’t have to pay.”

  He leaves a hundred-dollar bill, as always. “Say goodbye to your parents for me.”

  “You guys in town this weekend?”

  He nods. “See you Monday. Aimee’s last week, right?”

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  He furrows his brow. “We never got a chance to talk about your girl troubles.”

  “It’s not a thing.”

  “That’s right. Chase McKay never has any trouble with the girls.”

  If you only knew.

  Almost as soon as Keaton is gone, my parents come back out to join me. I hold up the hundred-dollar bill for my mom. “He insisted. He says goodbye.”

  My mom shakes her head. “You keep it.”

  “We’ll take it.” My dad puts it in his pocket. “Put it towards your organic white truffle olive oil.” He turns to me. “Your ma filled me in. What are you? Nuts?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Going after the woman you love doesn’t make you a bad friend to Keaton or a bad leader.” He thumps his chest. “It makes you a man. You think I stopped to worry about the other guys who wanted your mother? Half the men in Brooklyn wanted to marry her.”