After we said our goodbyes, I rejoined Bridget on the couch. While we drank our sangria, she gave me the skinny on the ups and downs of shacking up with a boyfriend. The ups according to Bridget were someone to fix broken appliances, assistance carrying groceries, company while binge-watching television, and sex whenever you’re in the mood. I flinched at the last one since I had taken to counting down my ten favorite book covers in order to throw off unwanted visuals of Jonathan and Bridget riding the hobbyhorse, but I did like the idea of unlimited sex with Nicholas.
The downs according to Bridget were dirty towels (and underwear) on the bathroom floor, the constant stench of marijuana, occasional snoring, stealing of covers in bed, and untimely farts (hers and his). Since Nicholas’s faint snoring was adorbs, he didn’t smoke pot, was extremely hygienic, and never farted (for real), I wasn’t fazed. My earlier worries were a distant memory—except for one. Chewing on a fingernail, I asked, “Did you ever worry that moving in with Jonathan before getting engaged was a mistake?”
“Never even crossed my mind,” Bridget said before taking a sip of her sangria. “Are you concerned?”
“I wasn’t. Until Daneen said—”
“Why are you even listening to her? She’s probably one of those women who thinks of marriage as a business proposition and cares more about the cut of the diamond than the identity of the groom.” Increasing the volume of her voice as her face flushed with emotion, she added, “And by the way, getting married isn’t the end all and be all. There are plenty of married couples that are miserable. Being in love is more important.”
Not expecting such a heated reaction, my head swung back. In a soft voice, I said, “But what if I want both—marriage and love?”
Her cheeks returning to their normal fair hue, Bridget smiled at me. “Then you’ll have both, whether or not you shack up with Nicholas before getting engaged. Daneen’s jealous because no one, male or female, would ever want to live with her. She probably has to pay for a one-night stand.”
I laughed, finally taking Daneen’s jab for what it was—an attempt to make me doubt myself. I wouldn’t let her. I knew living with Nicholas was going to be a grown-up and sexy version of playing house, and I couldn’t wait.
Things in my personal life were at an all-time high. I couldn’t say the same about my professional life yet, but like Bridget said, a lot could change in a year. With any luck, I’d be a published author, or least an agented author, by the time I turned thirty.
Chapter 4
I scanned through the emails Rob had forwarded me during one of his late-night work sessions the prior evening and tried to remain focused on what my younger sister Erin was saying to me. I was having trouble feigning interest in her search for the perfect dining room set—probably because she and her husband, Gerry, had been furnishing their four-bedroom colonial-style house in Sharon, Massachusetts, for over a year already. I smiled inwardly, envisioning my loveseat safely ensconced in my apartment (for now). I never shared my adoration of the couch with Erin because I knew if I let it slip, she’d have been on it like mosquitos in the tropics. And since her signed mortgage was likely more permanent (and grown-up) than my rental of a tiny one-bedroom apartment, she might have won any battle that ensued.
“So we nixed the five-piece Ashby for the seven-piece Ballard modern glass set.”
“It sounds really pretty. Can you send me pictures or links to the website?” Nice job, Kim. Way to show sisterly support.
“It’s not ‘pretty,’ Kim. It’s elegant,” Erin corrected.
“I’m sure it’s very elegant, then. You’ll have to host a dinner party at some point so we can see it for ourselves.” At some point in the very distant future. I loved my sister but only liked her in small doses.
“Not if you host us first.” Erin chuckled.
“Huh?”
“Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to actually prepare dinner,” Erin snorted. “Not one of your talents.”
“Still lost.” And a tad insulted even though she spoke the truth: the culinary arts were not my forte.
Erin sighed loudly into the phone. “We’ll be in the city in March, remember?”
Then I recalled Erin’s upcoming trip to the city. Gerry, a copartner for a media start-up company, was speaking at a tech conference, and Erin was tagging along for an all-expenses-paid trip to New York City. Since she’d been voluntarily unemployed for the better part of a year, she wouldn’t even need to take any vacation days. “I didn’t forget about our dinner,” I confirmed.
“It won’t be the same as standing in my dining room, but if by some miracle, the delivery goes off without a hitch, we’ll be all set up by then, and I’ll take pictures so you can see how the set looks with our ceramic wood tile floors and our driftwood gray walls. You can’t get that from the store’s website,” she said knowingly. “Have you made the reservation yet?”
“Yes. We’re all set for Peking Duck House.”
Erin yelped, “Kim! You know I hate all Chinese food except for spare ribs. Why would I want to go to Peking Duck House?”
“You wouldn’t. Which is why I plan to make a reservation for Artisanal like you asked me to do weeks ago. It’s only December. We have plenty of time.”
“I hate you,” Erin said, but I could almost hear her relax into her chair. Or her bed if it was before noon.
“Ha. I love you too.” Being the older sister was fun sometimes.
“So what’s going on with you?”
Excited to share the news about Nicholas, I began, “Well, I—”
“I’m so excited for Hannah’s new book.”
A sudden coldness rushed through my core. “What new book?” Hannah Marshak was the queen bee in my high school, and there was no love lost between us until recently, when her debut novel, Cut on the Bias, was released, and her publicist asked me to review it. The prospect of actively promoting a book written by the girl who stole my diary and read excerpts to our tenth-grade class as part of her book report made my heart hurt. And although I’d never admitted it at the time (even to myself), writing was my passion. While I was stuck in a stilted job, my high-school nemesis was living my dream. The only possible upside to reviewing Hannah’s book was to trash it (and her) to my loyal followers, and I almost did. A mouse click away from publishing a blog post outing some of Hannah’s most deceitful activities in high school after reading some interviews where she feigned being humble and sweet instead of her true self—condescending and conceited—I came to my senses and chose to write an honest and positive review of Cut on the Bias instead.
“What new book?” I repeated. Rob’s paralegal David walked past my desk and motioned toward Rob’s office with a questioning look.
Trying to hide the quickening pace of my breathing in anticipation of Erin’s next words, I smiled at him. Covering the phone with my hand, I whispered, “Go on in.”
“It’s the sequel to Cut on the Bias. The title is Tearing at the Seams. Isn’t that clever?”
“Ingenious,” I mumbled, while rubbing my temples. Hannah could have titled her book Book and my sister would still think it was, hands down, the best title in the history of the printed word. Even though Hannah called me Kim “Short” all through high school, tried to break up my relationship with Jonathan, and spread a rumor that Bridget was a lesbian, Erin had a lifelong girl crush on her and was now her biggest fan. All through high school, I worried that Erin wished Hannah was her sister instead of me, but then my mom showed me the essay Erin wrote for her college applications about the person she admired most—me. After that, I accepted Erin’s worship of Hannah under the assumption if she had to rescue one of us from a burning building, she might have to think twice, but it would ultimately be me.
“It’s releasing over the summer,” Erin continued, completely oblivious to my lack of enthusiasm for the topic of conversation. “I thought you were fr
iends with her on Facebook. Haven’t you seen her posts?”
“No.” I didn’t bother to tell Erin I hid Hannah’s newsfeeds. “But I’m on Facebook so infrequently.” I swallowed hard. I was on Facebook and Twitter almost constantly to promote the reviews on Pastel Is the New Black and, most recently, to stalk literary agents. I felt beyond stupid lying to my younger sister about something so petty.
“Did you tell her about your book?”
“There’s nothing to tell yet.”
“You wrote a book. I’d say that’s something,” Erin argued.
Surprisingly touched by her show of support, I confessed, “I haven’t gotten any bites from agents. Feeling kind of crummy about it.”
“I have a great idea.”
“What is it?” I held my breath, allowing myself to believe Erin could really help me.
“Why don’t you ask Hannah for advice on getting an agent?”
I felt my face get hot. “No way.”
“Why not? She’d probably be a good source of information since she’s already experienced everything you’re going through.”
I wondered how many agent rejections Hannah got before Felicia Harrison of Harrison & Gold Literary took her on. I estimated less than ten. I hadn’t queried her yet, even though she had a great reputation and, according to Agent Inquiry—a popular research website for authors seeking representation—she was accepting submissions in chick lit. I didn’t trust how my fragile ego would handle being told by the agent who fell in love with Hannah that “my book didn’t engage her as much as she would have liked” or, worse yet, getting a form rejection. “I’ll think about it.” When a monkey flies out of my ass.
“You do that. Okay, I’ll let you get back to work. Days of Our Lives starts in five minutes, and I need to throw a load of laundry in the dryer. Gerry threw his boxers in with my delicates.”
My happily unemployed and unencumbered baby sister led such a tortured life. “You’d better go then. I’ll tell you about me and Nicholas next time.”
I heard Erin suck in her breath. “Wait. What about you and Nicholas?”
“Next time. Kiss kiss.” Before she could respond, I hung up with a satisfied smile. In the future, maybe she’d think twice before interrupting me right as I was about to tell her what was new in my life. But probably not.
Chapter 5
Nicholas plopped himself on my couch with an exaggerated sigh. “Whose idea was it to pack up your apartment on New Year’s Eve?”
I stood in front of him and held out a fresh bottle of beer. “Some dumb chick.”
Throwing me on his lap, Nicholas said, “Thank God she’s cute.”
“And has good taste in beer.” Twisting my body so I was sitting sideways across his legs, I handed him the bottle of Westvleteren 12, a rare beer from Belgium that could only be obtained through a secret meeting with monks. My friend Caroline was in the midst of a year sabbatical from work to travel the world and had a six-pack specially delivered to me and Bridget. Neither of us were big beer drinkers, but Caroline accurately thought it would impress Nicholas and Jonathan. She refused to tell us the circumstances under which she was able to secure the beer—said it was “classified.”
Joining us from the kitchen, Bridget sat down cross-legged on the floor with a bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade and announced, “I think a break is in order.” Her red hair was up in a bun, and she was wearing yoga pants the color of blue topaz, a yellow v-neck t-shirt, and pink and black zebra-printed flip-flops. Somehow, she made the unusual color combination work.
“I concur,” Jonathan said from behind her. Then he clinked his beer bottle against Nicholas’s. “Cheers.”
Packing wasn’t exactly a rockin’ way to welcome the New Year, but when I mentioned it to Nicholas as a joke, he jumped on the idea and suggested we invite Bridget and Jonathan and make it a double date of sorts. I was positive Bridget and Jonathan would refuse the invitation outright and was pleasantly surprised when they were equally as enthused as Nicholas. Neither of them was interested in going to an expensive and overcrowded party in a bar and agreed to help me pack in exchange for free snacks and booze and access to my fire escape for smoking breaks. Nicholas was aware of my history with Jonathan, but understood it was squarely in the past, whereas Jonathan and Bridget’s relationship was firmly rooted in the present and, with any luck, the future. I wouldn’t place any bets on Nicholas and Jonathan becoming bosom buddies—if Nicholas was George Clooney, Jonathan was Sean Penn—but the four of us had a lot of laughs whenever we hung out.
Scanning the room, now filled with cardboard boxes and black Hefty bags, I said, “I think we’re making good progress. Don’t you agree?” I slid off of Nicholas’s lap to give him room to breathe.
“We still have to decide what you’re taking, what you’re trashing, and what you’re storing.” Nicholas had offered to help me pay for a storage unit in Brooklyn for the items I wasn’t going to take but didn’t want to throw out, and we’d put up advertisements on eBay and Craigslist for pieces I wanted to sell, like my bed. I still had a couple of weeks before moving day to have them removed from the premises.
Bouncing on the loveseat, I said, “I want to take this.”
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Jabbing gently at his chest, I responded, “And I was afraid you were going to be afraid.”
“It’s pink,” Nicholas said, as if the rest of us were color-blind.
I dropped my chin. “I like pink.”
“But—”
I put a finger to his lips. “No buts. The loveseat and I are a package deal.”
Nicholas stared me down for a few moments, but I wouldn’t relent. Finally, with a loud exhalation, he said, “Fine. But how about we keep it in the bedroom? It can face the bed and be your special ‘lady’ couch. You can read all of your pastel books while sitting on it. This way, we can leave my gray leather couch in the living room since it’s too big to fit in the bedroom.”
A smile breaking out on my face, I said, “I like that idea.”
Nicholas returned my smile and kissed me on the cheek. “See? I promised you we’d figure it out.”
Jonathan snorted. “You’re a much better man than me, Nicholas. A pink couch?”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I countered, “Need I remind you Bridget has a purple couch and matching purple chairs? I don’t recall you insisting she refurnish before agreeing to move into her luxury apartment in the sky.”
“Purple is psychedelic,” Jonathan argued, scratching his shaved head. I was still getting used to his new hairstyle—or lack thereof. In his pre-Bridget days, Jonathan let his curly locks grow until they were unruly and tangled. This was a much better look.
Matter of factly, Nicholas said, “I’m a man who knows how to pick my battles. I can live with a pink couch, but I can’t live without my Kimmie.”
I released an appreciative sigh as my heart flip-flopped. “Thanks, sweets.”
Leaning his back against my gray-stained wooden coffee table, which doubled as a storage chest and would probably be left behind in the move, Jonathan asked, “How do your parental figures feel about this move?” Since we dated in high school, he knew my father tended to be passive-aggressively overprotective compared to my more laid-back mother when it came to my relationships with the opposite sex.
“My mom was totally fine with it. My dad mumbled something about cows and milk into his newspaper.” Daneen’s comment about waiting for a ring before moving in pierced my brain space, but I quickly brushed it aside.
“You’ll always be his little girl,” Bridget said fondly.
“Once a parent, always a parent,” Nicholas agreed, getting up to raise the volume on the Foo Fighters’ song playing on his iPod.
“Precisely why I won’t be having any daughters. I don’t want to spend my mi
ddle-age years chasing away horny teenage boys,” Jonathan said.
“How do you plan to avoid having daughters? As far as I know, it’s still not possible to choose the gender of your children,” I asked.
“I don’t plan to have sons either,” Jonathan said.
“What do you plan to have? Puppies? Or pussy cats?” Nicholas and I exchanged grins.
“I won’t be having children. I never want to get married either,” Jonathan said simply.
Widening my eyes in surprise, I turned to Bridget for her reaction, but she had gotten up and was headed to the kitchen with her back to me. I suspected Jonathan’s stance on holy matrimony was the driving force behind Bridget’s heated view of marriage during our one-on-one discussion a couple weeks earlier.
Nicholas nodded at Jonathan. “I respect that, man.” Sitting back down next to me, he closed his eyes and tapped his fingers on my knee as he hummed along to the music.
The timing had never felt right to ask Nicholas about his own views on marriage, but Jonathan had now provided the perfect opening to do it in a casual manner. Feigning nonchalance, I asked him, “Do you never want to get married either?” I could almost picture Daneen wiggling her ring finger at me while chanting, “Never gonna get it.”
Nicholas stopped humming and opened his eyes. “No, I want to get married, have kids, the whole shebang.”
To myself, I said, Thank God. To Nicholas, I calmly responded, “Cool.” Then I bent over and touched my toes to hide my smile.
Bridget returned to the living room with a container of the corn and tomato salad I had made and a bag of tortilla chips. After dipping a chip in the salad, she popped it in her mouth and looked pointedly at me. After swallowing, she asked, “Have you scoped out the coffee shops in the new hood?”
“I have. There’s a place called Ground Support not too far from Nicholas’s apartment where I intend to spend lots of evenings writing and maintaining the blog on the nights he works late, living the glamorous life of a lawyer.”
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