by Andrea Meyer
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Praise for Room for Love
Copyright
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I would like to thank my amazing agent, Jennifer Gates, at Zachary, Shuster, Harmsworth Literary Agency—without whom this book would literally not exist—for having the vision to imagine this story and having faith in me and my ability to tell it. Thank you to my editors, Jennifer Weis and Hilary Rubin, at - St. Martin’s Press for your astute readings and Stefanie Lindskog for facilitating the publishing - process.
I could not have done it without Hamida Bosmajian, Julie Merson, Kerry Eielson, Rachel Sussman, Kathleen Fleury, Victoria Rowan, and the talented writers of TK who read pages and chapters and drafts and never let anything slide.
I am forever indebted to La Muse Writers’ and Artists’ Retreat, the Writers Room, Aquiloni, and Sympathy for the Kettle for providing me with a quiet place to write; Faye Penn for assigning me the article that became the book; Ryan Smith for helping me sort out legal mumbo jumbo; K. J. Bowen for sharing the smoldering details; Shari Smiley for taking an interest in the book’s future; the American Red Cross and that one hunky Thirteenth Street fireman who was willing to talk to me for the info; Mark Payne for making me look good; Jason Greenblum for making me look even better; and Liz Swados for once saying, “I want you to become a writer.”
Heaps of deep gratitude to Grant Shaffer, Andy Bailey, Colin Weil, Lisa Rosman, Shane Evans, Christy Frantz, Kim Sandler, Kenny McCarthy, my furry friends Fred and Leon, the indieWIRE crew—Erin Torneo, Jacque Lynn Schiller, Brian Brooks, Eugene Hernandez, Anthony Kaufman, and Taylor Deupree—and all the ex-boyfriends, yoga teachers, East Village characters (canine and human), and Craig’s List boys whose humor, insight, and assorted forays into my life inspired and spiced up these pages.
Deepest thanks to Courtney Gant, LJ Krizner, Dana Segal, Mae McCaw, Melissa McClure, Carolynn Carreño, Susan Shapiro, Debbie Stone, Leslie Oliver, Deborah Wakshull, Sara Berrisford, Kathryn Saffro, Maura Hurley, John Fanning, Eduard Espinos, the women of my NY book group, Haig Bosmajian, and the wonderful Herschorn family, for all kinds of kindness, advice, and support.
Most of all I want to thank my sister, Katya Meyer, for having the brilliant idea that became this book and for being my cheerleader even as I wrote a sister character much brattier than you are in real life; my wonderfully supportive parents, Miriam and Michael Meyer, for encouraging me never to stop learning and for giving so much; my grandparents, Helen and Wolf Herschorn, for your boundless love and inspiration; Jack and Maggie for the entertainment and unconditional cuddles; and so much love and appreciation to Harlan Bosmajian, my incredibly attentive, openhearted, giving, sweet, gorgeous, perfect divine romantic partner, for gently kicking my butt (and getting me a Writers Room membership), for reading (and improving) draft after draft (even forty-eight hours before our wedding), and, above all, for loving me and making me smile even when I was at my most insane.
For Katya, who gave me the idea that began my story, and Harlan, who gave me my happy ending
1
* * *
32-year-old woman seeks roommate for gorgeous, sunny, East Village one-bedroom. Ideal candidate: 30-something male. Considerate, honest, laid-back. Smart, funny, creative, financially stable, good in bed. Roommate must display a passion for movies, books, and food, must be able to handle his booze and ready for a serious relationship. Good with hands a plus. No vegetarians, commitment-phobes, or Republicans need reply. Dog lovers only. Above all, must make said 32-year-old female’s heart race—wildly. Anyone fitting this description, call Jacquie. ASAP.
* * *
“Hey. It’s me. Would you please let me know if you’re coming tonight?” I hang up with a clank and eye the corner of my computer screen. It’s five o’clock. “Fuck!” I say more loudly than I’d intended, and everyone in the room audibly stops working and turns their head in my direction. “What?” I ask.
Steve, my perpetually tanned and smiling Zen Buddha boss who’s sitting Indian-style in his Ikea desk chair that isn’t big enough to accommodate this position, and Samantha, my blond Barbie-doll coworker who stopped blowing bubbles in her chocolate milk with a straw during my little outburst, return to their work. Then, as the atmosphere is gradually restored to its earlier, calmer state, Chester, our sweetly spastic intern, a gangly NYU film student with pubescent tufts of peach fuzz on his face and Ronald McDonald hair, trips and drops the wooden crate of videotapes he’s carrying around for no apparent reason. A collection of mediocre independent films that no one will ever see crashes to the ground, skidding and scattering all over the oddly shaped loft space we call our office, some cracking, others zipping across the scuffed yellow floorboards.
The place erupts, as Steve and I jump to help Chester pick up the tapes. Meeting me eye-to-eye over a saccharine tale of lesbian lawyers in love (shot on digital video for under fifty thousand dollars), Chester takes the opportunity to say, “What’s your problem today, potty mouth?”
“I’m your boss. A little respect, please.”
“Yeah, whatever. It’s gotta be that dick.”
“It’s five o’clock and I still have no idea if he’s coming to my birthday party.”
At this point, Sam and Steve, apparently eavesdropping, plus Spencer, chiming in from the conference room at the other end of the office, join Chester in the familiar refrain: “Dump him!”
“Do it. Like Malkovich dumped Pfeiffer in Dangerous Liaisons, man,” Chester says. “Brutal, final, balls in the nutcracker.”
“Really, Jacquie,” Sam says dryly, not even glancing up from her expertly shaped red nails, which she began filing while the rest of us were wrangling videotapes. “There’s no point in prolonging the drama.”
I’m used to this kind of treatment. Rolls right off me. And I’m sure as hell not giving in to their shameless peer pressure. This time, I revert to my oft-employed sixteen-year-old Valley Girl voice and reply, “Whatever, you guys!” before strutting out of the room, stomping my four-inch boot heels as I go. In the hallway, I slide down the wall, landing my butt on my heels and wishing I had a cigarette. A hand emerges through the cracked door, handing me one—and a lighter.
“Thanks, Chester.”
I pull smoke into my starving lungs. I don’t smoke, except when I’m drunk or stressed out, and this moment would qualify as the latter. I stretch my legs across the narrow hall, settling in to consider my lot in life. It’s not just that we’re shipping the current issue of the magazine to the printer tomorrow with an alarming amount of work still undone. More urgent, I’m turning thirty-two today and I’m barely able to pay my rent (I mean mortgage; I’m not used to the change in status) and I’m still putting up with men who can’t be bothered to attend my birthday party.
On any other birthday, I might have told myself not to worry—even thirty didn’t faze me. I felt energetic, ambitious, f
ull of hope, and I was in a serious relationship—but this one is momentous. When I was a kid in Los Angeles doing MASH charts with my friends—employing a precise science to determine if we would live in a Mansion, Apartment, Shack, or House and every other piece of information pertaining to our perfect future—everyone was praying to live in a mansion in Malibu, marry Rob Lowe, work as a movie star, drive a Porsche, and have three kids by the time they were twenty-five. Everyone except me. Even then, I knew I wanted more time to play solo and announced boldly that I would tie the proverbial knot at thirty-two. It seemed like a grown-up age, when my screen-diva career would be thriving and I’d be ready to stop dabbling with the Brat Pack and walk down the aisle with a lawyer or a surgeon or a truly talented hot actor—like Tom Cruise, for example—and settle down with him in the palatial estate in Malibu I had earned. I didn’t even care when my friends protested that thirty-two was way too old to land a cute husband.
Somehow, through the years, when relationships ended and I’d feel that particular panic start to bite, something in the far reaches of my mind would soothe me, cooing, “It’s all right, honey child, you’re not even thirty-two yet!” Thirty-two became crystallized in my mind as the age when I was supposed to start acting like a responsible adult.
And here I am. Not only do I not have any husband prospects (or a mansion on the beach), I don’t even have a proper boyfriend. In my mind, this birthday is the clock striking twelve and if I don’t get my act together by midnight, I’ll turn into a big, fat, pumpkin-faced loser who’s doomed to sit alone in an attic wearing rags, stitching the hemline on some evil supermodel’s Monique Lhuillier wedding gown, and picking ashes out of my hair. For me, being thirty-two and single means watching ring fingers (instead of people) walk down the street. It means scanning the wedding pages in The New York Times every Sunday, looking at nothing but the photos and the brides’ ages, feeling validated by the ones who are older than me and humiliated by the ones lucky enough to find true love at a tender, young age.
“Look at this chick,” I announced at brunch last Sunday with my best friend, Courtney, and my sister, Alicia. “Marrying her high school sweetheart. How quaint can you get? Here I am, well into my thirties, fifteen years of dating under my belt, and I haven’t met a single guy I’d marry.”
“You’re just fine,” said Courtney, whose advice I regard with some reverence, since she and her husband, Brad, are the only happily married people I know. “You’re on your own unique path. Imagine if you’d married Philippe, for example.” Philippe is my impossibly beautiful and adoring French ex-boyfriend, with whom I shacked up in a minuscule garret overlooking Paris for two years after college. When I decided to go to grad school in New York rather than continue to hustle for gigs teaching English to bored housewives and lecherous businessmen in France without working papers, he proposed.
“Marry you?” I’d responded incredulously. “I don’t even know if I like you anymore.” It was my cruelest moment, the memory of which still makes me wince. True, I’d been having doubts about him and France and my life choices in general, but I can’t remember anymore why I felt compelled to brutally break the heart of the only man I ever considered worthy of my love. My usual pop-psychology explanation is I wasn’t ready: I was too young to make that kind of commitment, so I convinced myself there was something wrong with him.
“I’m sure you could have been very happy with Philippe,” Courtney went on. “But you never would have moved to New York or become a journalist.” I could have lived with this assessment, but she went on. “You would have been married for, wow, seven, eight years to a darling French doctor and you’d probably have beautiful, bilingual kids. Maybe by now they’d be in school and you’d be writing a memoir about your life as an American mom in Paris, maybe in an office overlooking the sea at Philippe’s family home in the South. But you wouldn’t”—she bit her lip in concentration—“be so independent. You wouldn’t be the strong, career-driven, New York woman that we all adore.” I stared blankly at my friend, whom I wanted to throttle.
Alicia reached over and pried the Styles section out of my fist. “This couple?” she asked, indicating the smiling blond faces that had piqued my jealousy. “Look at him.” We did: smarmy frat boy turned smarmy investment banker with a crooked smirk on his face. “They’ll be divorced by the time she’s thirty. He’ll be sleeping with some bimbo he met at a conference in Miami. She’ll take him for everything he’s worth, driving him to drink and rehab and remorse. By the time he comes back begging, she’ll have found herself, sunk his millions into a successful catering business, and started having sex with her twenty-two-year-old personal trainer named Ed.”
We reassessed the photo.
“I sure am glad I didn’t marry my high school boyfriend,” I said.
“He’s gay,” said Alicia.
“Oh yeah.” We returned our attention to our six-dollar chai lattes.
Even if I’m not regretful about my life so far, I do know it’s time to give up the hopeless cases that always seems to provoke my passion, say adios to the ubiquitous commitment-phobes, and meet The Goddamn Guy already. When I say The Guy, I mean the one whose name I would tattoo across my tummy. I’ve had boyfriends, loads and loads of boyfriends. In fact, I calculated that I’ve spent ten solid years of my life in serious relationships—or some combination of serious relationships and tempestuous affairs that felt awfully serious at the time. All those years in and out of love, and it occurred to me the other day with a sharp gasp that there wasn’t one man among them that I considered tummy-tattoo-worthy. I fall in love the way most people tumble into bed after an excruciating day: immediately, giddy with anticipation, semiconscious, every exhausted muscle releasing into fluffy relief. My frequent romps, as passionate and consuming as they can be, tend to burn bright and fizzle fast, and I’m way too smart to get a tattoo while my head is still spinning. My longer-lasting relationships, on the other hand, have been with guys like Philippe, who loved me but never inspired the kind of certainty in me that would justify putting a sharp needle to my soft, unsullied flesh, not to mention indelibly branding me his babe.
I’m currently doing the dance with Jake, a twenty-nine-year-old artist I met at a Halloween party thrown by the specialty division of a movie studio. He was there courtesy of his roommate, the assistant to the VP of publicity, dressed as the sexiest Bamm-Bamm Rubble ever, with his messy coffee-colored hair gelled into a hyperactive mane and a tight, furry, leopard-skin outfit that showed off sinewy thighs and toned biceps. He was flying on ecstasy. I was a devil in a skimpy red dress and fishnets, soaring as high as he was on the endless stream of multicolored martinis that kept arriving on cocktail waitresses’ trays. After two minutes of enthusiastic chitchat, he said, “Do you want to make out?”
“Okay,” I said.
And we did.
With all that vodka and ecstasy coursing through our veins, how could it be anything but bliss? By the time we were groping each other on my couch, I was enamored—of his unruly hair, his soft kisses, the way he gazed at me with intense, celery-green eyes and said, “God, I like you,” so lovingly I almost believed it wasn’t the ecstasy talking. We had sex on my kitchen floor, my head banging against my refrigerator as October rolled into November—and I was a goner. The next morning, while I was popping aspirin to relieve my bruised skull, he told me, “Damn, you’re gorgeous,” and “I’m obsessed with your body,” and “I like you, but I’m not ready for a relationship.” I chose not to listen to that last part, because I liked the first bit and because I wanted to keep having sex with him.
My wise little sister tells me that men are simple creatures. When they say something, they mean it. Like “I have to eat something right now” means feed the guy or he is going to break something. “I don’t know how to be faithful” means the dickhead is about to sleep with his slutty ex-girlfriend who’s been skulking about lately. And “I’m not ready for a relationship” really does mean “I’m not ready for a relati
onship.”
Even before my postcoital first date with Jake, the warning signs were in place: the premature gush of passion, the fact that he didn’t call for five days, forcing me to call and hang up on his voice mail twelve times (dialing *67 so my number wouldn’t show up on his Caller ID) before he finally picked up, enthused and genuinely surprised that so much time had passed. He wanted to see me that night, which he did (his friend’s band’s gig, cheap burritos, sex in the cab on the way back to his place) and continued to do, but the rules had been established.
We spent one weekend lying around his apartment eating takeout and watching bad movies on cable and finally dragged ourselves to the grocery store on Sunday afternoon, because Jake had a sudden impulse to make spaghetti Bolognese. On the way there, I made a remark about how much I love it when a man cooks for me and he made one back about how I’d better find a boyfriend who cooks, then. I didn’t respond. Instead, I went silent and his words sat in my gut festering like a bad oyster. Picking up a package of ground beef, Jake said, “You all right?” I nodded. But I’m like a kid when it comes to hiding my emotions. In the pasta aisle, he nudged my shoulder affectionately with his chin and asked, “Hey, what’s up?”
I swallowed hard and pulled my eyes away from a box of multicolored bow ties to look at him. “If this relationship isn’t going anywhere…” I forced myself to look in his eyes. “Then what are we doing?”
He grinned and said, “Having fun, right? I mean, I’m having fun!” He said it with this big exclamation point at the end, as if there was nothing wrong with the sentiment, and then threw a couple of items into the cart. “Oops, forgot the parmesan.” He planted a peck on my cheek and bounced off to find a hunk of cheese, as I stared into jars of marinara sauce with tears blurring my vision. But I can’t quite bring myself to leave. That night, as he was kneeling over me, inching his way toward orgasm in the windowless Brooklyn cave he calls a bedroom, I stared up at him: his clenched jaw (framed lovingly by my feet), loose curls just barely grazing his broad shoulders, the tattoo that circles his left arm rhythmically tensing and untensing, impossibly slim hips, golden hair creeping down his tanned, hard stomach, which was glistening ever so lightly with sweat, and I thought, You’re a god. I will never be able to leave you.