by Penny Reid
This gave me pause. I was fairly certain Emma had sounded irritated on the phone earlier when she’d discovered my name. Perhaps I’d been imagining it.
“Anyway, you called?”
“Yes. I did. I called.” I glanced around the kitchen as though it might help me figure out what to say next. My mind hadn’t quite reconciled the fact that Emma wasn’t his girlfriend; my heart and stomach were looking to me for direction on whether to soar or switch places, and I had none to offer.
Should I feel happy? Relieved? Ambivalent? Unsurprisingly, the kitchen offered no guidance.
I must’ve been quiet for too long, because Martin asked, “Are you still there?”
“Yes. Sorry, I’m here. Yes, I called. I wanted to talk to you about the terms of our friendship.”
“Our friendship?” I heard the smile in his voice.
“Yes. I was thinking, you and I…I mean, even though we only spent a week together, I feel like—on some level—we became friends. And I liked our friendship, I liked you.” I closed my eyes, winced, and covered my face with my hand, feeling mortified and glad he couldn’t see the monster blush creeping up my neck.
“I liked you”…really? You are so bad at this.
But then Martin surprised me by saying, “I liked you, too. If you remember, I liked you a lot.”
This made me laugh my relief, pleased I wasn’t the only one risking part of myself and my pride.
I answered quietly, “Yes. I remember.” Now I was blushing for an entirely different reason.
“So, terms?” He prompted, “What days of the week do I get custody? And for how long?”
“Custody?”
“When do I get to see you?”
“Martin, we don’t need a schedule. If you want to see me or talk to me, just call me.”
“What about today?”
Again I glanced around the kitchen; it had no advice to offer.
I sputtered, “Uh…well…I guess…sure. If you have the time. I’m heading up to where you are in a little bit, as we have a show in the city tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll take you out to dinner tonight.”
Going out to dinner felt too much like a date. I didn’t think I was ready for anything that my heart might misconstrue and pin hopes upon.
“Or we could meet at the MET and grab a bite there.” The cafeteria at the Metropolitan Museum of Art had great food and was extremely public. Plus, it felt like a neutral spot, like something platonic friends would do together.
He was quiet for a few seconds and I could almost hear him thinking. Finally he acquiesced, “Sure. That’s fine. Where are you staying tonight?”
“In Brooklyn, with my bandmate, Janet, and a few of her friends. We’re actually staying there all week. I have, like, three shows every day this week.”
“You’re not going home for Christmas?”
“No. I went home for Thanksgiving. Plus the Christmas season is a very lucrative week for the band. I promised Willis I’d be available.”
“Willis?”
“My boss.”
I heard the creak of leather, like he was shifting in his seat, and when he spoke his words sounded measured, carefully casual. “You could stay with me, if you wanted. I have plenty of room and I’m in Manhattan.”
My heart sped up at the offer. Hmm, let me see. Spend a week with Martin on an island. Why did that sound so familiar and hazardous? It actually sounded amazing, at least my pants thought so…but also like a really, really terrible idea.
“No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to soil your linens.” I was pleased to hear him laugh at this while I continued, “But that’s really nice of you to offer.”
“I’ll pick you up from the station.”
“No need. Janet and I are riding over together, then we’re dropping our stuff off in Brooklyn. I’ll take the subway to the MET and meet you there for food.”
“The offer still stands.” I could tell he was grinning. “Feel free to stay with me anytime.”
I realized I was grinning too, like a love-sick goof.
And I also realized that this, a friendship with Martin, was either going to help me get over him and be my best idea of all time, or I was going to fall even harder and it was the worst mistake I would ever make.
CHAPTER 5
Phase Changes and Heating Curves
Turns out my worst idea ever of all time was deciding to stay with Janet and her twin, aspiring actor friends.
As soon as we walked in the door I knew something was amiss, mostly because of all the drug paraphernalia scattered around stinking up the studio—including, but not limited to bongs, bags of weed, bent and burnt spoons, lighters, syringes, and what I was fairly certain was the hydrochloride salt form of heroin.
One of the twins was passed out on the couch. The other was on the floor, shooting up.
I paused in the doorway just long enough to absorb the general splendor of these idiots ruining their lives before turning around and marching back down the last flight of stairs we’d just hiked up.
“Katy, wait. Where are you going?” Janet called after me, but did not follow.
“I’m leaving.”
“But—wait, wait a minute.” Now she was following me. I’d made it to the second landing before I felt her hand on my arm making me stop. “What do you mean you’re leaving?”
I faced her, my eyes darting back to the open door, her bags still in the entry. “Just that. I’m leaving. I’m not staying with druggies.”
Her lip curled as her eyes moved up and down, as though she were seeing me for the first time. “Is this because your mother is a politician? Are you afraid of ruining her rep? Or are you just being stuck up?”
“I guess I’m just being stuck up. This has nothing to do with my mother. Even if my mother were a singing barista, I wouldn’t spend one second more in that apartment. I don’t like drugs. I don’t want to have anything to do with them.”
“Come on, they’re not bad guys.” Her expression softened and she smiled warmly. “Come back—we’ll order a pizza and ignore them.”
I shook my head before she finished speaking. “No. It’s one of my life rules. I have no tolerance for drugs or for people who do drugs.”
“Does that mean you have no tolerance for me?” Janet stood straighter, her chin lifted in challenge.
“Do you do drugs?”
“Hell yes.”
I shrugged. “Then I guess you have your answer.”
Her mouth opened in shock and I took advantage of her momentary stunned surprise to walk down another two flights of stairs.
I heard her call after me just before I exited the building, “Good luck finding a place to stay the week before Christmas, every place is booked. And don’t come back here with your judgmental bullshit!”
The door slammed behind me, cutting off any additional tirade she might be flinging in my direction. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with icy air, and reminded myself, just because I don’t feel calm, doesn’t mean I can’t be calm.
I walked toward the subway station, holding my sleeping bag to my chest and shifting the weight of my backpack. Even though I’d packed relatively light, the bag was still heavy. Janet was right. Finding a place to stay for the night was going to be nearly impossible, especially a place I could afford.
I basically had two options.
I could call my parents and ask them if I could borrow money for a hotel room. I really, really didn’t want to do that.
I wasn’t going to live my life having my mother and father support my little hobby. It wasn’t a hobby to me. I wanted to be treated like an adult. I was making my own decisions about my future, I should be able to make my own way. I would accept their help with tuition, but then I promised myself I would be on my own in all other facets of my life.
The second option was catching a train back home tonight, then catching another train back to the city early in the morning. This wasn’t a great option either since it
was going to be incredibly expensive to take the train back and forth every day, not to mention exhausting.
Debating my options, and knowing ultimately I really only had one option if I wanted to be truly self-sufficient, I took the subway back to Grand Central Station.
Once I was no longer underground, I texted Martin.
Kaitlyn: Sorry. I have to cancel our MET meet up. I’m not staying in the city and need to try to catch a train back home before they’re all sold out. Maybe next time.
I was standing in front of the departures board when I felt my phone vibrate, alerting me to his response.
Martin: Are you already in the city?
Kaitlyn: Yes, but my arrangements fell through, so I’m going back home.
Martin: Don’t go. Stay with me.
I stared at this message for a full minute, my heart accelerating then dipping then twisting as I thought about this potential solution I hadn’t considered. Earlier, from the comfort of my living room in New Haven, this suggestion had seemed ludicrous. Now, faced with the reality of a train ride back home and another in the morning, this idea felt a lot more plausible. We were friends after all.
Maybe I was staring for longer than a minute because Martin texted again.
Martin: I’m hardly ever at my place. You’d basically have the apartment to yourself.
I felt like this last message was an unbreakable code…
If he was hardly ever there, did this mean he had a girlfriend? Emma the business partner wasn’t his girlfriend, but he didn’t deny having a girlfriend. What about the brunette at the gig last week? Maybe she was his girlfriend.
Did he spend the night at this theoretical woman’s place all the time?
Could I be any more psycho and weird about Martin Sandeke?
Feeling like I needed to know for certain whether he had a girlfriend before I agreed to spend a night in his apartment, I debated how to respond to his latest text.
If he had a girlfriend then I was leaving for home tonight and the answer was a firm no. I didn’t want to see him with anyone else…ever. As well, how fair would it be to this hypothetical girlfriend if I was lusting after her boyfriend for a week while in his apartment? It wouldn’t be fair at all, and it was against the cool-girl code.
But I felt strange about texting him and asking him, so I tried to cleverly extract the information instead.
Kaitlyn: Does this mean you’re a workaholic or is your social calendar just impressively full of hot dates?
Martin: A workaholic. My social calendar is mostly work stuff.
Kaitlyn: So, you’re out late only because of work?
Martin: Usually.
Kaitlyn: Any other reason?
There was a significant pause in his text messages. I waited, watching the clock on my phone. I was about to do a google search for “Martin Sandeke girlfriend” just to put myself out of my misery when he finally responded.
Martin: Are you more or less likely to stay the week if I have a girlfriend? Because I can get one if I need to.
Once again I was staring at my phone, surprised by his text. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. Martin had nerves of steel and balls of titanium. Before I could text him back, he sent another message.
Martin: There is no one. Stay with me. It’ll be the most exciting thing that’s happened since I bought a PS4.
He didn’t have a girlfriend…!
I couldn’t help myself, I did a jig, right there in front of the departures board at Grand Central Station. It was an instinctual, involuntary jig.
After the fact, I recognized I did a jig for no reason because nothing was ever going to happen between us again. He’d had his revenge on his father. He existed in his universe of one. He’d moved on. And I wasn’t likely to trust him enough to let anything happen. Regardless, the fact he was single felt like a victory, so I did my jig.
I read his message again and my attention caught on the very last part.
Kaitlyn: Wait, you have a PS4?
Martin: Yes.
Kaitlyn: Do you have any Lord of the Rings games?
Martin: Yes. Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor.
Kaitlyn: What’s your address? I’m on my way.
***
Martin lived in the Upper West Side. Finding his building was no big deal and was basically a relatively short subway ride with one transfer. When I arrived, the doorman seemed to be expecting me because he greeted me as Ms. Parker and ushered me into the lobby to the desk of a friendly concierge. Her name was Mae and she was extremely cheerful.
“Aren’t you lovely, dear? Mr. Sandeke called ahead and said we should be expecting you. I’ll show you up to his apartment.”
“Oh, I don’t mind waiting until he gets home.”
“Nonsense, dear. He was particular about you going up right away. Besides, who knows when he’ll be home?” She leaned close to me as we boarded the elevator and whispered, “He keeps odd hours, so you might be waiting until midnight.”
Martin lived on the sixth floor and his place was at the very, very end of a long hallway. Mae made chitchat the entire time and, to be honest, I had no idea what she was talking about. Staying with Martin when I was tired, hungry, and stranded seemed like a reasonable alternative to catching trains daily back and forth between New York and New Haven.
Now, faced with the reality of Martin’s apartment, I was beginning to question my judgment. I wondered if I should add a new life rule: never stay at an ex-boyfriend’s place.
Mae unfastened the lock and opened the door, practically pushing me inside when I loitered a little too long at the entrance. However, she did not enter the apartment. I took a few stumbling steps into the space and greedily absorbed the surroundings.
The first thing I noticed was that Martin’s apartment was not ostentatious, at all. Other than its size, the impressive view of Central Park, and the fact he had an actual patio with chairs and a table—currently covered in snow—everything else was rather modest. And cozy. And homey.
The visible walls were plain white, but mostly the room was lined with honey-colored wooden bookshelves, all of which were full of books. He had a worn-looking, dark brown leather sofa in the center of the living room, two matching club chairs in the same leather, a Shaker-style coffee table, and an antique looking drafting table in the corner; it was covered in papers with sketches tacked to a corkboard to one side.
He also had a stone fireplace; the hearth was free of decoration, but a large painting of an eight-person crew boat done in a Norman Rockwell style hung above the mantel. It was the only art or picture I could see. The living room looked like a comfy library.
“Okey dokey. You’re all set.” Peripherally I heard Mae call to me just before the apartment door clicked shut. I turned around and found that she’d gone, leaving me alone in Martin’s home.
My back twinged and I was reminded of the heavy backpack I’d been carrying for the last few hours. Sighing, I placed my sleeping bag on the couch and relieved myself of my luggage, letting it fall to the sofa as well. Then I realized I needed to relieve myself of…other things.
I decided I wasn’t going to feel weird about invading Martin’s space since I’d been invited, and set off to find the bathroom. The first door I opened was to a very tidy, very large bedroom. The walls were white and within was a bed with no headboard or footboard. The comforter was sky blue. The side table and dresser were a distressed, Shaker style. If I didn’t recognize the craftsmanship of the woodwork, I would’ve assumed they’d been purchased at a garage sale. Both were completely bare of stuff. This was obviously a guest bedroom.
The next door was to a closet with sheets, blankets, pillows, and towels, or as I would call them later in order to tease Martin, linens. I checked to see if his towels were monogrammed. They were. I smirked.
The next door was to a bathroom. I flipped on the light and sucked in a surprised and delighted breath. The bathroom was very vintage and very cool. The tilework was checked black and wh
ite, a pedestal sink stood to one side, and the nobs appeared to be antique porcelain.
The shower was a stall with a glass door and the toilet looked old and new at the same time. Perhaps it was a reproduction of antique-style toilets. I had to pull a chain hanging from a ceramic box in order to flush it, which I honestly thought was exciting.
I would have to make a special effort to keep from flushing the toilet for no reason.
But like the bedroom, it was entirely free of clutter. The only items in the bathroom other than the fixtures were two white towels, toilet paper, a soap dispenser, and an empty trashcan.
I walked back to the living room and decided to send him a text, let him know I made it.
Kaitlyn: I am texting from inside your apartment.
Martin: Are you going through my things?
Kaitlyn: Yes. And I’ve soiled all your linens.
Martin: Just stay away from my fancy watches.
His last message made me laugh, and then I caught myself. Texting back and forth with Martin was fun. It made me remember conversations we’d had during spring break, the quick exchanges, the teasing. The messages reminded me of how easy and right it had felt between us.
My phone vibrated again and I had to blink several times to bring the screen into focus.
Martin: I’m almost home and I have pizza. Your room is the first left down the hall. Get comfortable.
My heart sped at the thought of seeing him so soon and I told it to calm the frack down.
We were friends now. If I was going to be seeing him I was going to have to learn to control my body’s reaction. I was going to have to learn how to become indifferent. That meant no more celebratory jigs and no more heart races.
Lugging my backpack from the couch to the sparsely decorated room I’d spied earlier, I unpacked. While hanging my tuxedo in the empty closet—which was strange to see, who has empty closets?—I walked by a mirror and caught my reflection. My hair was in two thick, long braids on either side of my head. I was wearing an extra-large men’s concert T-shirt, a very baggy pair of cargo pants, and Converse. This outfit was great for travel because it was comfortable and I didn’t care if it became dirty.