The Boy Next Door

by Costa, Annabelle

  When the game is over, Jason navigates his wheelchair through the bar. His latest wheelchair was acquired roughly a year ago, and it’s a much more streamlined and sporty version of the sometimes awkward wheelchairs he had as a kid. He always opts for plain gray and steel, as opposed to the brighter colors in his childhood (the worst was bright yellow once). Back then, the backrest of his chair used to rise up to his shoulder level with large handlebars sticking out so that his parents could push him if need be. Now the back rises only up to the blades of his scapula, which I think is the minimal back support he can tolerate, and there are definitely no handlebars.

  If you or me were trying to get across a crowded bar like this in a wheelchair, it would probably take like an hour of bumping into people, tables, and chairs. But Jason’s been doing this a long time and has expert control of his wheels, and knows when to grab onto furniture to help propel himself, so roughly a minute later, Jason joins me at our table. Melissa doesn’t follow him, which doesn’t surprise me at all. When he gets to our table, he kisses me on the cheek. “How’s the birthday girl?” he says, as Patti gets up to call her husband for the millionth time.

  “Lousy,” I say, taking a big swig of my drink. Although it doesn’t look especially tough swigging from a lime-flavored cocktail.

  “Poor Tasha,” he says, gently rubbing my shoulder. “I hope you’re not thinking too much about that asshole Doug.”

  I wince at the name of Dr. Two-Timer. “Please don’t remind me.”

  “Sorry,” Jason says quickly. “But look, there are tons of great guys here. I told them how hot the birthday girl is and they were tripping over each other to get here.”

  “That’s a start,” I say, allowing a smile to touch my lips. “So give me the L.D. on the guys.”

  Jason’s forehead scrunches up. “The L.D.?”

  “Lowdown.”

  He laughs. “I think you’re spending too much time around grade-schoolers.”

  “God, I know,” I murmur. “So what about that guy at the pool table? With the blond hair?”

  Jason shakes his head. “Nuh uh. He’ll say he’s not married, but he is. Very married. Three kids.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “Well, what about the guy at the dart board? He’s really hot.”

  “Yeah, and he knows it,” Jason says. “Total player. Steer clear. Unless you want a one night stand and a scorching case of herpes.”

  I make a face at Jason. “Tempting as that is, I’ll pass. Okay, what about that guy standing by the bar? The one in the brown suit. What’s wrong with that one? Serial killer? Robot in human body?”

  “No, actually,” Jason says. “That’s Larry Gold. He’s . . . a pretty nice guy.”

  “Really?” I look at this Larry guy a little closer. He’s no heartthrob, but he’s not ugly. He’s maybe in his mid-thirties. A nice, normal, single guy in his mid-thirties? I’m very suspicious. Yes, Jason is nice and he’s single in his mid-(almost)-thirties, but he’s a paraplegic, so not entirely normal. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Well,” Jason says slowly. I knew it. “The only thing is, he’s kind of . . .”

  “Kind of what? Spit it out, Fox.”

  “Kind of boring.”

  “Boring?” Right now, “boring” doesn’t sound like a bad thing at all. Actually, it kind of sounds like a blessing. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  Jason shrugs. “Yeah, it’s not, I guess. Just that sometimes when I’m talking to him, I sort of . . .”

  “Sort of what?”

  “Want to shoot myself in the head.” Jason flashes me a half smile. “But hey, that’s just me. And he’s really nice. I don’t think he’d ever cheat.”

  I think about it for a minute. “Okay, introduce me.”

  I can’t help but think that 25-year-old Tasha never would have allowed herself to be introduced to a man who someone else said made him want to shoot himself in the head. But 32-year-old Tasha has different priorities.

  Up close, Larry Gold has a very disarming appearance. His hair is slightly thinning, and his hairline is pushed back, but not unattractively. His mild blue eyes aren’t the kind that would make a girl’s heart thud in her chest, but are, again, not unattractive. He’s in decent shape—clearly not someone who goes to the gym with any regularity, but also someone who watches his waistline.

  Larry seems pleased when I approach him. Well, why shouldn’t he be? Despite my crow’s feet, for 32, I look great. I go to the gym regularly and I pay a fortune (that I don’t have) to get my hair highlighted and cut in a flattering, layered fashion.

  “Hi, Larry,” Jason says. “I wanted to introduce you to Tasha Moran. She’s the one having a birthday today. Tasha, this is Larry Gold.”

  “Hi, Tasha,” Larry says, sticking out his hand, which I shake. His palm is kind of dry. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’ve heard Jason talk about you before.”

  This statement makes Jason color a bit. “Well, anyway,” he says, “I’m going to see how Melissa is doing. I’ll catch up with you later, Tash.”

  For a moment, I want to cry for Jason not to leave us alone. But before I can say anything, he’s wheeling away. Probably not a moment too soon, because Melissa has that look on her face that she always gets when Jason is talking to me. I get the feeling I’m not Melissa’s favorite person in the world.

  “So how do you know Jason?” Larry asks.

  “We were next-door neighbors as kids,” I say. “So we’ve known each other… forever, I guess.”

  Larry nods, and there’s a long, awkward silence.

  Finally, Larry says, “I suppose I should buy you a drink, then? Since it’s your birthday.”

  “Um, you don’t have to,” I say.

  “No, I would like to,” he says.

  With that charming offer, Larry purchases me a Midori Sour and himself a beer. I wait for the drinks eagerly, hoping it will spark more free-flowing conversation. Like I said, if I were 25-years-old, I wouldn’t be wasting my time on this guy. But right now, boring equals safe. Boring means he won’t break my heart.

  “So where are you from?” Larry asks me. Ah, conversation staples.

  “Pittsburgh,” I reply.

  “Oh, like Jason.”

  “Right,” I say. “Um, how about you?”

  “Baltimore,” he says. For a moment, I’m hopeful he’ll expand on this information, but he doesn’t. Baltimore, that’s it.

  For a minute, I try to think of a follow-up question, but I don’t know anything about Baltimore. Wait, Baltimore’s in Maryland, right? Don’t they have, like, a lot of crabs there? Maybe I should ask about crabs. Or maybe “crabs” isn’t the best word to say when you’re trying to get to know a guy.

  “So, how is it being an investment banker?” I finally ask him.

  Larry shrugs. “Oh, it’s fine.”

  God, this is like pulling teeth. “I’m a teacher.”

  “Yeah, I think Jason mentioned that once.”

  For a moment, I’m thrown off that Jason has been talking about me enough for random people from his work to know that I’m a teacher.

  “Music, right?” he says.

  “Oh, um, yeah.” I clear my throat. “It’s a lot of, you know, getting kids to sing songs and stuff. Nothing too hardcore.”

  “Oh,” Larry says.

  “But it’s important,” I say. “It’s sort of a release for kids, to get to express themselves, you know, musically.”

  “Right,” he says.

  Oh God, I am going to shoot myself in the head. “So what kind of music do you like?”

  “Oh, whatever’s playing,” Larry says.

  “Like, any particular bands?”

  Larry thinks for a second. “I like Michael Bolton.”

  Okay, I can’t stand this for another second. I’m about to make up an excuse and leave, but then I see Jason across the room, giving me an enthusiastic thumbs up. Then a second later, I see Melissa put her hands on his shoulders, then slide into his lap.
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  I am so sick of being single. And dating jerks.

  “Listen, Tasha,” Larry is saying. “Do you think maybe I could have your phone number?”

  Oh, what the hell. I’m not getting any younger.

  When I walk in the door that night, my phone is ringing. I nearly trip over the cord of my lamp racing to answer it on time. The only reason I have a home phone is that it doubles as an intercom. Mostly I just get calls from telemarketers on the phone, yet for some reason, I still run to answer it.

  “Hello?” I answer breathlessly, as I toss my light jacket onto my futon sofa. I hate the fact that I live in a studio apartment, but it’s better than having a roommate or living in Brooklyn (or God forbid, Jersey). Like all studios, it’s one room, but with little alcoves. It’s got a little alcove that’s the kitchen, a little alcove that’s my living room and bedroom and foyer and whatever else. Also, there’s a bathroom, thank God. It’s small and horrible, but I’ve done my best to decorate it in the time I’ve been here. At first, I was going to go for a flower theme, but then I decided solid colors would make it look more spacious.

  Of course, there’s not a whole lot you can do to “decorate” a tiny studio. It involves mostly bedspreads and curtains.

  “What are you doing home so early, Natasha?” The scratchy voice on the other line belongs to my grandmother, who is pushing 90, yet still is as interested in my love life as she’s ever been.

  “It’s 11 o’clock,” I say with a sigh. I kick off my heels and breathe a sigh of glorious relief. Walking on the hardwood floor in my bare feet feels like I’m stepping on pillows. “It’s Monday night and I have work tomorrow.”

  “You’re a young woman and you should be staying out late on your birthday,” Nana says firmly.

  “Thanks for the birthday wishes, Nana.” I sigh. “Why don’t you call me on my cell phone?”

  “Those things cause brain tumors,” Nana says. “Besides, if you were on your cellular phone, you could still pretend you were out even if you weren’t.”

  That’s probably exactly what I would have done. She knows me pretty well. “So,” Nana says, “did you meet someone, at least?”

  “Sort of,” I say, thinking of the number I scribbled down for Larry Gold. It’s even my correct number.

  “Don’t be too picky,” Nana says. “I know you like the guys who are drop-dead handsome, but you know those guys are all a bunch of pricks.”

  “Nana!” I cry. “Where did you learn that word?”

  “I don’t know, probably picked it up on TV or something,” Nana says. “Anyway, Tasha, next time you need to pick an ugly one. The uglier the better.”

  “Okay, Nana.”

  “But not as ugly as your sister Lydia’s boyfriend,” she says. “Yeesh, that one is hard on the eyes. . . .”

  Nana spends a few more minutes ranting about how ugly Lydia’s boyfriend is (he is pretty ugly) before I manage to get her off the phone. While I’m relieved to have ended the conversation, my apartment seems strangely empty. I go to the window and look outside and think how much it sucks to be spending another birthday essentially alone.

  The phone rings again and this time I’m ready for it. I grab it off the couch and say, “Nana, I’m exhausted.”

  “It’s not your grandmother,” a tinny voice says, which I realize must be coming from my intercom. “It’s Jason. Can you buzz me up?”

  Despite how exhausted I am, I feel my face lighting up in a smile. I press “nine” to buzz him up. Although I’m not in the nicest building ever, I purposely picked a place with a decent elevator so that Jason wouldn’t have any trouble getting up to see me. After all, he spends enough time here, even now that he’s dating Melissa kind of seriously.

  I hear a knock at the door and throw it open to see Jason sitting in front of me with a cake on his lap. I know he wakes up really early for work, and I can tell he’s had a long day judging by the way his hair and clothes are slightly rumpled, which is all the more reason I’m touched he showed up here with a cake. Then again, he always does. Every year.

  There are six candles on the cake, not 32 (thank God), and they’re lit. I’m touched by the gesture, considering there was a noticeable lack of cake at the bar. “You weren’t wheeling down the street with the candles lit like that, were you?” I ask him.

  Jason grins. “Yeah, I even took it on the subway. Wasn’t easy, but it was worth it.” When I stick out my tongue at him, he says, “Okay, I lit it just now.”

  I step back and he wheels inside to place the cake on my dining/coffee/everything table. “I got your favorite,” he says. “Carrot cake.”

  “You liar,” I say. I hate carrot cake and he knows it. For some reason, my mother couldn’t get it through her head that I hated it and made it for me for like four birthdays in a row. I want to vomit at the thought of carrot cake. Or any cake that might be make from a vegetable.

  “Okay, it’s chocolate,” he admits.

  “And where’s my gift?” I say.

  “Wow, you’re demanding,” Jason says. He reaches into the backpack on the back of his wheelchair and pulls out a wrapped gift with a red bow on it. He hands it to me.

  I eye the rectangular present. “What is it?”

  “Uh, that’s why you’re supposed to open it.”

  At first I’m worried it’s a really thick book, but then I get it open and see that it’s the entire Back to the Future trilogy. Jason and I probably watched this trilogy five-thousand times as kids. I can still hear his mom screaming at us, “Don’t you kids ever get sick of that stupid movie?”

  “This is awesome,” I breathe.

  “We’re going to watch it this weekend, right?” he says. “I mean, I mostly bought it for you so that I could see it.”

  “Saturday?”

  “Perfect.”

  I smile wryly. “Don’t you need to check with Melissa?”

  “Why?” he asks blankly. I feel a flash of relief that he’d say something like that. He’s been with Melissa for over a year, which is one of the longest relationships he’s had since we reconnected. He seems to like her a lot and I get the feeling that at some point, they’re going to decide to move in together or even get married, and at that point, I don’t know what will become of my friendship with Jason. Melissa’s made it no secret that I’m not her favorite person. But I guess if he’s agreeing to hang out with me on a Saturday without even checking with Melissa, things can’t be too serious. Also, she’s obviously not spending tonight at his apartment, so that’s another good sign.

  “So are you going to blow out the candles?” Jason asks me. “In another two minutes, you’re going to have a wax cake.”

  “Right,” I say, sliding into the chair next to the table.

  “Don’t forget to make a wish,” he says.

  A wish. I close my eyes and wish for the most clichéd thing a 32-year-old woman could possibly wish for, something I would never admit, even to Jason: I wish to get married by my next birthday.

  Three

  As promised, Larry calls me. I’d been half hoping he wouldn’t, but that would have made me feel totally awful about myself. If a guy like Larry won’t even call me back, what does that say about me? Anyway, he called me and sounded enthusiastic, and before I could stop myself, I was agreeing to a Friday night date.

  I’m embarrassed to admit I kind of put a lot of thought into what to wear for the date. The thing is, I’ve always been pretty. I don’t mean that in a stuck-up way, it’s just a fact. And at 32, I think I still look good. I don’t look old. Okay, they don’t card me at bars anymore, but I think I could easily pass for mid-twenties. But when I went to my ten-year college reunion recently, there were lots of girls there from my class who looked like they were forty. The ones with three or four kids, who’d been married since age 22. Let me tell you, if you want to stay young looking, don’t get married, and don’t have kids.

  A few years ago, I might have felt smug about my wrinkled classmates, but I don’t
anymore. I was one of the prettiest girls in my class, and it just doesn’t make sense to me that practically everyone is married except me. I mean, there were girls that nobody would touch with a fifty-foot pole and even those girls got married. I don’t get it. Seriously. People think I’m picky, but it’s not like I’ve turned down any marriage proposals.

  The only thing I can think of is that I’m picking the wrong guys. I’m picking the good-looking, successful guys who are commitment-phobes and jerks. I need to pick nice, boring guys. Like Larry.

  So when Larry picks me up at my apartment on Friday night, I’m wearing an eye-popping, slinky red dress and red fuck-me pumps. Not that I intend to let Larry fuck me tonight, but I want him to want to.

  I meet Larry downstairs because he says he’s got a cab waiting. When he sees me, his eyes widen. “Wow, Tasha,” he says. “You look amazing.”

  “Thank you,” I say graciously. Larry doesn’t look too bad himself, and I can tell he made an effort. He’s wearing a nice, green silk shirt, brown tie, and pressed slacks. I’m big on noticing shoes because I think they say a lot about a guy, and I can’t help but be impressed by Larry’s shoes. If I’m not mistaken, they’re Louis Vuitton and look like they cost a bundle.

  Not that I’m surprised, but Larry didn’t bring anything for me. I always think it’s a nice touch when a guy shows up with a single rose or something like that. It doesn’t cost much, but it’s just a sign that he’s trying to make an effort. I told Jason this tip and he says most girls love it when he hands them the single rose.

  Larry herds me into the cab, which takes us to a small Italian restaurant in the village. Like every other place in the village, it’s warm and tiny, with most tables seating only two people. Each table has a candle in the middle, which provides most of the light in the restaurant. They must save a fortune on electricity, but when I see the prices on the menu, I see they haven’t passed on any of the savings to the customers.

  “Do you want to get wine for the table?” Larry asks me, when we’re seated.