by Gigi Garrett
I pause. Usually, this is the point where I swoop in with my “I’m the best broker in the five boroughs” speech, but I hesitate. I don’t want to get in any deeper with Tyler. Not only does he think I’m engaged, but he also puts me off-kilter.
“Could you help me out?” he finally asks, breaking the silence.
I nod reluctantly. “Of course. Email me. We’ll set it up,” I say, disappearing into the next open stall.
Once the door is shut, I sigh. On the positive side, he didn’t notice my missing ring. But in a city of millions, how the heck did we both end up in the same champagne bar? And why does he make me so nervous?
When I get back, Mia and Ralph are engaged in conversation. Like, intense, no - one - else - in - the - room convo. Elsa May points to her watch and I take a deep breath. Hopefully, we can all get out of here before any more awkward run-ins with Tyler.
Mia seems to be reluctant to go, but we know how Elsa May is all about her bachelorette party schedule. I watch Ralph write down something on a piece of paper and hand it to Mia.
I keep my mouth shut only long enough to get outside.
I’m dying to tell everyone about Tyler, but this is Mia’s bachelorette. Besides, I don’t want them teasing me about him.
“What was up with you and that Ralph guy?” I ask Mia the second I breathe in New York air.
“What?” Mia says coyly.
“You and Ralph. Holy chemistry,” Elsa May chimes in.
Jane pauses. “Do you women think it seems like men are much more engaging when they think a woman’s taken?”
Mia nods. “It’s because it’s not all about getting laid.”
“Or getting turned down,” Elsa May adds. “Men are so scared of rejection.”
“But Mia,” I say, “what did Ralph write down?”
She cackles. “His phone number. He only has a landline. He says it’s impossible to focus on his job—or his life—with a cell phone. He calls them soul suckers. He’s my total opposite.”
Jane looks at her. “Are you going to call him?”
Mia pulls her hair out of her ponytail and shakes it out. “Probably not. He said he has a few fashion contacts at papers he could introduce me to, but you know how people talk. Besides, who actually calls anyone these days?”
“I think it’s romantic,” I say. I mentally add “good on the actual phone” to my checklist.
“Me too,” Jane says. “Cell phones have empowered females in relationships, but they’ve also objectified them. My colleague did this study—”
“Back to Ralph, Jane,” I say. “We can talk about the study later.”
“I’m only saying I agree,” Jane says. “Talking on the phone sounds very Jane Austen. It’s like the modern day version of love letters.”
Mia holds up her Tyler King ring. “No Ralph. I’m engaged, remember? It’s strictly a professional thing.” But her tone isn’t convincing. She seems smitten, like she was with Ansell in the beginning.
Maybe the only way to get over something is to pretend you already are.
“Guess who I ran into by the bathroom?”
“Rock?” Elsa May says.
I roll my eyes. “No,” I say. “Thank God. But almost as bad. It was that guy Tyler,” I shrug. “He was there with a bunch of girls. I mean, what a weird coincidence.”
Elsa May looks at me. “My mimi always said listen to the coincidences.”
I laugh. “She also said things like ‘Putting boots in the oven doesn’t make them biscuits.’ ”
“True,” Elsa May concedes.
“What did you and Tyler talk about?” Mia asks. “Your upcoming Tuscan nuptials?”
“I avoided that one,” I say. “But he does want me to find him an apartment.”
Elsa May gets a sneaky look. “Are you actually going to do it?”
“What’s one more day of pretending?” I say. “Plus, I can’t turn down the commission.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is about?” Mia asks.
“Yes,” I say and change the topic. “Elsa May, can you please tell us about the next stop?”
Elsa May, with head camp counselor confidence, leads us toward an empty cab.
She opens the curbside door and shoos us in: “Let’s get going. We all know what happens at midnight.”
Yes, we go back to who we are, I think. Whoever that is these days.
* * *
We’re all squeezed into a cab on our way home after another admittedly fun night. I squint at the clock and see that it’s past 2 a.m. 2:18 to be precise. Another night of missing my curfew. Good thing we’re officially done with these. Feeling guilty, I take out my phone and check my email. Tyler’s email address pops up at me.
“Listen to this, ladies. It’s an email from that Tyler guy: ‘Hey Lottie. What a small, small world after all. Have any resources in Williamsburg? I’m available this weekend to look around. Thanks. Tyler.’ ”
“Ugh,” I groan. “This bachelorette thing is like an STD. The gift that keeps giving. Tyler already emailed me about the apartment.”
Elsa May looks at me. “Lottie Langerman,” she scolds. “Please do not tell me you’re complaining about making money off this? I think you owe me a cut. Like an agent’s fee.” She takes my phone and looks at the email. “Hold up, Lottie. I think Tyler has a crush. Who emails at eleven p.m. on a Friday about renting an apartment?”
I shrug. “He’s an artist. He doesn’t play by the rules.”
“I bet he doesn’t even want a new apartment,” Elsa May says. “It’s probably an excuse to see you again.”
“Please. He has a girlfriend,” I say. “I think she was there tonight.” I push down my feelings of jealously. C’mon, Lottie. You’re envious because she’s so beautiful. You’re competitive about everything, I remind myself. It has nothing to do with Tyler.
“And I’m engaged,” I remind them, holding up my bare finger.
“Sooo . . . ,” Jane says suggestively.
“I’ll call him,” I say, leaning my head against the window and watching the city go by. “I’m not going to turn away a commission.”
“Are you going to call Ralph?” I ask Mia, turning the attention toward her.
She shrugs. “All I know,” she says, fixing her crooked crown, “is that I only thought about Ansell twice tonight. The entire night.” She looks at Elsa May. “Thank you. I don’t want to admit what a record that is.”
We pull up to my building and Elsa May and I get out. “Hey,” Jane calls through the window. “How about next Friday? My turn?”
Before Elsa May can answer, I call out, “We’ll see.”
I’m glad that Mia had a good time, but I’m ready to go back to regular life. When I don’t play by the rules, I feel unhinged. It’s time to get back on track.
That is, after I rent Tyler an apartment. An expensive one.
Chapter 6
I’m standing outside The Gowanus Studio Space in Brooklyn late Saturday morning.
After a few quick back-and-forth, business-only calls, I’ve agreed to meet Tyler at his shared studio space. He thinks we’re going to look at apartments in Williamsburg, but we’re not. Instead, we’re heading just a few blocks from here, where I found him the perfect place. If I have a talent, it’s knowing what people need—even when they don’t.
My phone vibrates. It’s Mia. “Was Ralph as cute as I remember?”
I text back. “Call him.” Even though I’m completely against women reaching out first, this guy could be Mia’s opening to finally getting over Ansell. And it’s me, not Mia, who likes to play by the rules.
“No way. Ralph thinks I’m engaged,” she responds.
Even I can’t think of a response to that one. The truth sounds too crazy, and men only like crazy for one night.
The front doors swing open and Tyler walks out. “Hi, Lottie,” he says, waving. “Thanks for meeting me here.” He reaches his arms out for a hug, but I hold my right hand out to shake. Friends hug. We�
��re not friends. We’re run - into - each - other - at - bars acquaintances and now broker and client. And I only hug clients after a lease has been signed on the dotted line.
“Shit,” Tyler says, looking at his dirty—nearly black—fingers. “I was rushing and forgot to wash my hands. Want to come see the studio while I soap up?”
I study my watch, even though I don’t have another appointment. But in any business, it’s a good thing to appear busier than you actually are.
“Fine,” I say. A tiny bit of me is curious what a jeweler’s workspace looks like. Definitely not the typical cubicle.
Tyler surprises me by reaching out and holding the doors open for me. I’ll admit the building is super cool. It’s a renovated warehouse that’s been turned into tiny studios for writers, woodworkers, and other visual artists. I joke and call the entire city “my office,” but a part of me wishes I had a real designated workplace.
I follow Tyler through a cavernous hallway. He pulls a key out and opens a door.
Inside, there’s a large wooden table with an adjustable seating bench in front of it. There are also about a dozen different lights of all shapes and sizes. But what really amazes me the most is how neat he keeps it. The cement floor is swept eat-off-it clean, and there are tons of organized, stacked boxes.
“You look disappointed,” Tyler says.
I shrug. “It’s very cool. But not what I expected.”
“Not all artists are insane—or tortured—or messy,” he says, turning on a light and pulling out a drawer. He removes a ring from a velvet pouch. “I finished this one today.” He shows me a greenish-blue stone encrusted with small pavé diamonds. “I call it the Valentina. I name all my rings after women. It’s a marketing thing.”
“Have any Lotties in there?” I joke.
Tyler laughs. “Lotties don’t like my rings, remember?”
I put my right hand on my hip and make sure my left hand is tucked carefully behind my back. “That’s not what I said. It was you who said your rings weren’t my type, which is true. But it’s not that I don’t admire them.”
Tyler shrugs. “Semantics.” He passes me the Valentina, which I take reluctantly with my right hand.
He gestures for me to try it on. I shake my head.
“Now, Lottie. You have to hold something to actually see it. And you have to try it on to truly know it.”
Now who’s selling whom?
I roll my eyes but slip the ring on my right ring finger when he turns his back. “I’ve never seen this stone,” I say, truly mesmerized. “It’s gorgeous, very sea siren.”
“It’s an Australian fire opal,” he explains and turns back around. “I do a lot of custom orders, but this one I did out of inspiration. It’s nice to get to do it that way sometimes because it helps release creative energy.”
He walks over to a small sink and soaps up his hands.
I nod. “It’s beautiful,” I say, taking it off when he’s not looking. “Some guy is going to make a girl very happy with that.”
Now it’s Tyler rolling his blue eyes at me. Geez, that somehow makes them sparkle even more. It’s as if they become a real-life kaleidoscope.
Tyler dries off his hands with a paper towel. “So you know, Lottie, thirty percent of my customers are women who buy my rings for themselves. I think the whole idea that men buy jewelry and women receive it is very colonial,” he says with passion.
I nod. He’s right there. My favorite necklace, a charm of a compass, is one I bought myself after a big commission check.
“I don’t make jewelry with a certain demographic in mind,” he says. “My whole philosophy behind jewelry design is to make one-of-a-kind pieces. Some people decide to use my pieces for engagement rings, but that’s never my sole intention when I’m making them. Rather, I’m focusing on uniqueness. I think the fact that nine out of ten women want the same princess-cut diamond engagement ring is sad. Why want what everyone else has? Why not have something that represents you? My hope with my jewelry is that women feel special.”
“Not everyone wants to be a unicorn,” I say with a smile. “There have to be some traditions, and having a classic ring reflects that.” I don’t go into the fact that I’m a total traditionalist. I’m sure he can figure out that much. Besides, he just described my dream ring as generic. Not that I’m surprised. Tyler and I are obviously cut from very different cloth. I can’t imagine we’d agree on anything.
I shrug and hand him back the ring. Oh shit. I go to tuck my left hand behind my back again, but I’m too late.
He looks at me with a puzzled expression. “Hey, where’s your engagement ring? I didn’t mean to offend you the other night. It’s sort of the cliché engagement ring, but it’s still pretty.”
“It’s getting cleaned,” I say. I practiced this line the whole way here. I suppose I could just say that we broke up or invent some other story, but at this point, it’s easier to keep lying. “And it’s a classic ring, not a cliché one. And I’m offended, so thanks for asking.”
Tyler tucks the Valentina ring into a velvet pouch and puts it neatly away. “I would’ve cleaned it for you.”
“Really?” I ask, relieved he bought my story.
“Yes, really,” he says. “I have all the stuff right here. Half the people in the stores use the wrong stuff.”
“Thanks, that’s generous of you,” I say, impressed with his kindness. It’s not often that people offer to do something for me like that.
While Tyler is still the opposite of my type, I admit that he’s surprising. I believe most people fit into boxes—hell, that’s how I make money—but I’m still not sure what shape Tyler’s box is. He intrigues me—sociologically speaking, of course.
“The offer stands anytime,” he says. “It’s a beautiful stone. You should take good care of it.”
“And here I thought you didn’t like it,” I say.
Tyler strokes his beard. “I think you are misquoting me again. I only said the stone could find a better setting.” He reaches up and switches off the lamp. The blinds are closed, so suddenly we’re standing in the dark, minus the crack of light from the hallway.
When the lights go out, my breath goes with it. I haven’t been afraid of the dark since I was three and had an Ariel nightlight, but my arm hairs are standing on alert.
We stand in the silence. It feels like we’re both waiting for something, but I’m not sure what. Finally, Tyler brushes against me as he makes his way to the door and opens it. The tiny studio becomes bright again.
“All right,” I say, adjusting my eyes. “Let’s get going. I found the perfect place for you. We better get there before someone else swipes it away. You know Brooklyn is hotter than Manhattan these days.”
Instilling the fear of death that someone else is taking your apartment is one of my strongest tactics. People thrive off the feeling of suspense. It’s why we watch scary movies, after all.
Tyler follows me out of the studio. “Wow. You really are all business. I’m not sure if it’s endearing or annoying.”
Business, Lottie. That’s why you’re here, I remind myself.
* * *
“All my friends are in Williamsburg,” Tyler protests when we arrive at the building I’ve arranged to show him. A building that happens to be in another area of Brooklyn. “I’ve been in Williamsburg since college. I’m an original. Hell, I’ve lived there longer than I lived anywhere else in my life. Williamsburg is my home, Lottie.”
I shake my head. “Williamsburg is your holding pattern, not your home. There’s a difference. Places there are (a) overpriced and (b) run down.” I point at him. “Plus, admit that it’s changed here. You used to be Williamsburg before half of Manhattan decided they were Williamsburg. Now you’re Boerum Hill. You can grow out of an area the same way a child has to eventually get rid of his security blanket.”
Now Tyler shakes his head. “You’re comparing Williamsburg to a baby blanket? You’re one of kind, Lottie. Normally, I admire th
at,” he says, and pauses to wink. He’s a pretty great winker, I must admit. He playfully stomps his foot on the sidewalk. “But I only want to see places in Williamsburg.” He points at himself and states confidently: “I’m Williamsburg.”
I point at the brownstone’s steps. “Hello, I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but this is a brownstone, not some poorly constructed tenement like the place you’re probably living.”
“Hey—” he starts to say, but I cut him off.
Talking with Tyler is like playing table tennis. Exhilarating but exhausting. “You’d have the entire second floor to yourself. Do I need to call JR to remind you that you’re currently living in a run-down fourth-floor walk-up?”
“How do you know it’s run-down?”
I shrug. “Educated guess.”
“Is this your MO?” he asks. “Convincing people you know them better than they know themselves?”
I shake my head, although that was nicely put. The thing is, I know that Tyler is looking for something very different from what he has, even if that’s not exactly what he told me. The only reason a sane person would move apartments in New York City is that they’ve run their course with their last one. Maybe they need to exorcise the ghost of an old lover. Maybe they want to move on from who they were in that apartment. So if someone comes looking to switch an apartment like Tyler is, I know that they want more change than just moving a couple of blocks away.
Plus, this place is perfect for someone with a significant other. I’m sure Tyler’s Facebook lady will love it, which is important. Girls are big influencers, even if it’s technically the guy’s place.
I look Tyler directly in his blue eyes. “My job is to find the best apartment for my client. This place is nine hundred square feet. That’s the type of footage you usually can find only in apartments in places like Cincinnati. There’s a new Whole Foods a block away and I know how you artists like your overpriced organic food.” Tyler laughs and shrugs.