Just Down the Hall

by Alessandra Thomas

  “Seriously, though, Liz,” Nate said, all of a sudden getting this solemnly sincere glint in his eye, “I’ve read your stuff. You’re very good at what you do.” He leaned forward and held out his hands, inviting me to rest mine against them. Almost reflexively, I did, and the little squeeze he gave my fingers was comforting, solid. Reassuring, and real.

  There wasn’t a zing of electricity through my skin like I got with JJ, but at least this hand-holding wasn’t backed up by lies.

  “I truly enjoyed your columns. I even finished reading most of them without wanting to quit halfway through.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, cracking a half-smile. “That’s a ringing endorsement.”

  “For a guy who likes reading medical journals more than anything else? It really is,” he confirmed.

  “Well, maybe we should put that on the intro to this last one.”

  "Liz Dates Mr. Perfect, who only struggled to make it through reading her column a couple times." I raised my eyebrows, trying to tease him. I wasn't offended—I knew that dating columns weren't everyone's cup of tea, not by a long shot. But the whisper of the memory of Jordan reading my column and cracking up laughing wouldn't leave me alone.

  It was because the guys themselves were laughable, stupid. Because he rigged the vote so they'd be that way.

  God, he was probably laughing at his own cleverness the whole damn time. Laughing at his ability to pull the wool over my eyes. Not just the wool—the whole damn alpaca.

  Nate chuckled, and when I looked at him, he was looking back at me like I was the sweetest, most perfect thing he'd ever seen.

  Understand how very lucky you are right now, Lizzie Palmer. Your readers love you, and they managed to find you a guy who's handsome, smart, selfless, polite, and single. He really is Mr. Perfect—maybe he'd be perfect in private, too. And there's only one way to find out. So what are you waiting for?

  "You seemed interested in dessert," Nate said, squeezing my hands gently before pulling one of his away, probably to call for the waiter to bring a menu.

  That was when I made my decision.

  I reached forward, grabbing his hand back with mine, twisting my wrists to intertwine our fingers like we had when we walked together. Just like that, the mood at our table went from sweet and romantic to an intimate bubble, a question I was writing in the air for him to answer.

  I caught his gaze and made sure that he heard my next words loud and clear. "I do want dessert," I said, fully aware that I'd pushed my voice lower and softer than it had been just seconds ago, a classic signal of education. "But how would you feel about taking it to go?"

  Nate's eyebrows pushed up and I could swear his body jerked in surprise before he tilted his head with a small smile. "Just to be clear, would you like to take it..."

  "To your place, yeah. I mean... if that's something you'd be interested in—”

  "Yes. Yes, very interested." He looked up at me and beamed, happy disbelief laced through his features. "Yes. Jesus. Unexpected, but yeah. Definitely. Okay."

  I giggled at the flush in his neck that rose to his ears, and this time I let him pull his hand away to signal the waiter. "Check, please?"

  He stretched his neck out and swallowed hard. Mr. Perfect actually had kind of a cute Adam's apple, one I wouldn't be opposed to running my lips over. Maybe even more so if it was scattered with the next day’s stubble. I smiled at him gently as the waiter brought the faux-leather folder to our table and Nate hurried to pull a card out of his wallet.

  A few minutes later, he was pulling my chair out for me again, then leading me to the door of the restaurant. His fingertips brushed the small of my back as we walked to the cab, and while we waited, he gave me that same goofy smile, accompanied by a little shake of his head.

  "What?" I asked, telling myself to lean into his touch. That's what people did at this moment.

  "Nothing, I just wasn't getting the vibe from you. I must have been distracted by, you know, actually being on a date with the girl I'd spent the last couple days building up a crush on." There was that blush again. He was so cute. Maybe I just had to fake it till I made it. Little touches were one thing—not everyone just knew someone was a good match for them, right?

  Yeah. That was what I had to do. Every date this week had been so shrouded in my being pissed off at JJ, and missing him, that my more instinctual reactions to other humans had been dulled. It was possible that all I had to do was clear my mind and give myself over to the attention that Nate, a perfectly nice guy, so clearly wanted to give me.

  We stood there in the dim light of the street lamp, waiting for our cab. I shivered against the chill that had crept into the autumn air so gradually I had hardly noticed it until it became unbearable. Immediately, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It smelled like man—a little soap and a little aftershave. Nothing heavy, nothing special, but nice.

  He was well-groomed, grown up. No faded jeans or sneakers or wild hair. That was a good thing. That was the kind of thing girls like me wanted in a guy.

  His fingers snuck to my side and pressed ever-so slightly into the curve above my hip, and I turned and took a step closer to him, putting our chests parallel to each other. His breath was coming slightly faster than normal, and I smiled. Sweet. He was so sweet, anticipating me getting closer. That was nice, to have a guy so excited about kissing me that his rate of respiration increased. Wasn't it?

  So when he gently reached out to brush my jaw with his fingers, then teased them back into my hair, I leaned forward, then pushed up on my tiptoes, with my mouth tilted up to his.

  His lips were warm and soft, moving firmly but respectfully against mine. Tongue, Liz. Give him a little tongue. Maybe that'll do the trick. I parted my lips, and his tongue darted out across mine, slightly cooler than I would have expected. I wondered if that meant he was nervous. His breath tasted like red wine and the barest trace of medium-rare steak, I noticed, cataloging everything about this kiss with all the detail of an annual checkup.

  Okay. The tongue hadn't done it. I sighed, pushing breath out of my nose long and low. He seemed to take that as encouragement, and pulled me in tighter to him, his fingers pressing into the cushiony curve of my side as he did. A small burst of warmth bloomed in my belly. There it was—a little progress, spurned by this little edge of desperation to what had so far been a perfectly pleasant date.

  There still weren't any fireworks going off throughout my body, no electric current zinging through my skin wherever Nate touched.

  Stop thinking about Jordan, stupid. There's no point in comparing any guy to him. It probably only felt so exciting with him because you knew you weren't supposed to be fucking around with him. Get a handle on yourself. Grow up.

  Maybe I didn't want fireworks, after all. Maybe that only came from secret inappropriate relationships, from guys that girls like me were supposed to be dating, from matches made in heaven. Or at least from matches made by the sane, non-asshole members of society.

  The cab pulled up, and like a perfect gentleman, Nate pulled away so he could open the door for me. I slid in and forced myself into a relaxed, happy posture against the black leather seat back. He shut the door and slipped his hand into mine again, smiling at the sight of our intertwined fingers resting on my knee. I smiled back.

  "I can still tell the cabbie to take you home," Nate offered, his gaze serious with a trace of the excited hopefulness it had held back at the restaurant.

  "No," I said. "I'm coming with you. If that's okay."

  "More than okay," Nate said, leaning in for a quick peck that honestly took me by surprise. He gave his address to the cabbie, while I texted it to Deanna. Nate may have been Mr. Perfect, but I wasn't stupid. I wasn’t going anywhere with a guy I’d just met without telling someone my location.

  I gave him a soft smile as the cab pulled away from the curb. I was making the right call. This would be good for me. Not every date was a head-over-heels whirlwind, and not every touch
from every guy was supposed to be earth shattering.

  It was time I learned that.

  Chapter 31

  Jordan

  My stomach dropped to the floor at the same time that bile rose in my throat.

  Dammit. Dammit. I would have thought that the worst part about seeing Liz hit it off with some other guy would be seeing him touching her, kissing her. Helping her into a cab, which may very well have been taking her to his place for the night instead of hers. Then, after seeing pictures of Nathaniel Perfect, how he looked so natural standing next to her, how he was a perfect gentleman, how he made her look so relaxed and calm, I realized that was the worst thing.

  Liz being happy with another guy. Yeah, that sucked.

  Knowing that Liz had only been so happy with me - if that's what it was at all, compared to being with Mr. Perfect—because I had kept her from being with any guys that approximated normal? Well, that made my gut sink and my chest flood with guilt all at the same time.

  It was a miracle I’d made it through the midterm-prep study session I was holding for my students today. When I’d been pacing the room listening to my students work problems, I’d caught one of them zooming in on a picture of Liz and Mr. Perfect holding hands as they strolled downtown on what I’d started to call the Never-ending Date from Hell. In my head, that is.

  For the last five nights, after I’d finished a run or a review session for my students, I’d basically gone catatonic when I got back to Ethan’s apartment. There was nothing I could do. Literally everything I could imagine that might make me feel better – drinking myself into a stupor, texting Liz, calling Kiera, writing sappy poetry – would only make things worse. I knew that damn well enough. So I just sat in Ethan’s spare bedroom, or occasionally on his couch, sometimes pacing, most of the time running through the reasons I was now totally ruined for dating, all of which were my own damn fault.

  I was drowning, not only with the heartbreak of realizing that Liz definitely didn't feel the same way about me as I did about her - how could she when she was enjoying a date with another guy this much? - but with the punch to the ego that the only way I could get her to like a guy like me was by deliberately eliminating the competition.

  Feeling dead and empty as a ghost, I once again drifted over to Ethan’s couch and dropped onto it with a groan. “Maybe I should contact her boss. See if I can…respond or something.”

  "Buddy. You are fucking pathetic." Ethan had thrown some nachos together to try to lift my spirits, but despite the delicious smell wafting from the oven, my stomach only turned.

  "I know," I moaned into a pillow. "Do you think I should go back to our place? See if she's coming back there right now? He did help her into the cab, but what if the date didn’t go well?"

  I knew that, at least according to every live feed and picture of #LizDatesMrPerfect, that tonight’s date had been amazing. I knew she was headed back to his place, or he to hers. Thank God for Ethan.

  "Listen, man. I know you got attached to the girl you were supposed to be casually hanging out with. It happens.” His gaze flicked to Natalia, and she beamed. “But she is definitely not in love with you anymore."

  "Yeah, especially since she's going home with Mr. Perfect!" Natalia let out a little whoop. I glared up at her to catch her staring at her phone and giving a little fist pump.

  "You know that for sure?” I half growled, half moaned.

  "She texted Deanna. The photographer?"

  "I know who she is," I mumbled, pressing my face back into the pillow.

  "Anyway, your girl is smart. She texted the guy's address to her friend. You know, just in case."

  I bristled at the 'just in case' sentiment, even as I realized there would be no 'just in case,' no danger to speak of from this guy. This Mr. Perfect asshole was clearly a little nervous, and a lot in disbelief that Liz had leaned into him so readily, had let him kiss her. But he’d been nothing but respectful.

  It had sort of surprised me, too, the first time she'd wanted to be with me. Even that first time, when all she was doing was letting me take care of her, passing the time with a guy she trusted, I hadn’t believed she was letting me put my hands on her perfect, creamy-smooth, work-of-art body. Every inch of her was seared into my memory, every breath she took and word she said and sigh that passed her lips.

  Yeah, I was a goddamn lovesick fool, and there wasn't a fucking thing I could do about it now.

  I'd screwed everything up.

  "Alright. This will not stand. Not in my humble abode," Ethan announced. “Listen, man, I’m miserable too. I didn’t think Natalia and I agreeing to part ways would hurt so much, but it does. Like hell. But I made that decision, just like you made the one to rig Liz Dates Philly. Now we’ve gotta live with them.”

  “So, by ‘living with them,’ you mean…”

  “Drink too much and play video games all night,” Ethan finished, confirming my suspicions. Excellent.

  I was pathetic. Hell, we were both pitiable, but at least Ethan’s heartbreak was only partly his fault. I knew I had to get a place of my own, but at the moment, feeling sorry for myself on Ethan’s couch felt like as much as I could handle. I was living the most pathetic bachelor-pad couch-surfing lifestyle possible, with nobody to blame but myself.

  Four beers and a few inappropriately loud games of Call of Duty later, I'd all but passed out on the couch. My head lolled back and forth over the arm of the couch, and memories of happier times spent on a couch floated, dream-like, through my head. We’d been so happy—so blissfully in sync—and the only people who would ever know about it was the two of us.

  “What a damn tragedy,” I mumbled as I thumbed at my phone. I pulled up the Philly Illustrated mobile site, growling at the image of Liz and Nathaniel fucking Perfect that was now plastered across the home page. I scrolled through the short article that accompanied it, and stabbed at the link that said “Feedback for the Lifestyle section?”

  Before I knew it, I’d composed an email:

  * * *

  To Whom it me ocncerns:

  * * *

  Liz’s dates are funny but it’s a shame siznce she loves someone elses probably.

  This is Jordan the date-ruiner and there are two sides to

  every stories. Just so you know. And maybe write about that too.

  * * *

  Jordan J

  * * *

  I clicked on the “send” button and let the phone drop heavy from my hand as I listened to the accompanying “whoosh” sound. I was barely conscious as I felt Ethan toss a blanket over my still-clothed body and turn off the cheap floor lamps that dotted his apartment. "Sweet dreams, asshole," he muttered affectionately, then ambled into his bedroom, probably slumping on top of the covers in his clothes, too.

  I woke to a pounding head, exacerbated by the light streaming in through the uncovered windows. As badly as my head ached and as much as my tongue felt like sandpaper, the only thing that ran through my mind was the memory of waking up to sunlight just like this, in a much better situation—with Liz curled up beside me. I scrubbed a hand over my face, then stumbled to the bathroom, downing tiny paper cupfuls of water.

  This whole situation was absolute shit. Yeah, my heart was crumbling, ready to break into a thousand pieces once I read Liz's triumphant column describing in breathless detail how fabulous her date with Mr. Perfect had been. Philly Illustrated had really hit the jackpot with her, asshole roommate -with-benefits aside.

  As soon as I thought the words “Philly Illustrated,” it all came flooding back – my big stupid hands fuzzy-fumbling with my phone last night, composing a half-sad, half-angry message that said nothing in particular. I bolted to sitting and groaned as a deep, heavy pain settled between my temples. Blinking the pain-induced white waves from my vision took a few seconds, after which I immediately opened my email app, then stared in horror at the email I had apparently written last night. And actually sent.

  My awful spelling and belligerent tone in t
he email was the least of my worries.

  Apparently, when I was drunk I turned into the crazy-jealous stalker Liz had dumped me for being in the first place. Which was probably why I was so desperate to read, in her own words, how last night’s date had gone.

  Don’t get me wrong—I was torn. I wasn't sure I could even stomach the idea of reading her damn column, whenever it published, seeing how she'd somehow make even the most perfect of dates sound both amazing and bitingly hilarious at the same time. I wondered if she'd describe what it felt like when he touched her, when he kissed her. She'd never even let any of the other guys get that close to her, let alone—I imagined—look so damn happy about it if they did. I wondered if she'd talk about how handsome he was. The rest of Philly seemed to think so, and I was sure Liz was no exception.

  And I knew it could get worse. She could describe how he smelled, how he tasted. Maybe she'd recount the little jokes he used that made her smile like that, maybe describe the suspense of whether he would hold her hand.

  I didn't know if I could bring myself to read it.

  I didn't think I could ignore it, either.

  I sighed heavily and pulled up the page, which already showed the longest column Liz had written to date. Warring emotions boiled up inside me - I absolutely positively did not want to read about this date, especially after what I’d seen on the Philly Illustrated social media feeds, but at the same time, pride welled up in me for what Liz had accomplished.

  So much space in a real, big-city publication. She’d worked hard for this, and I knew that even if I never spoke to her again, I’d always follow her work and feel proud of the journalist I knew she’d develop into.