So now, here they were, more than eight thousand dollars in the hole, and Nick, broke and exhausted from insomnia and worry, with twenty minutes still remaining of recess. Nick’s phone beeped in his pocket, reminding him of a saved voicemail. It was his current landlady, asking for the third time if he still wanted to renew his lease, insisting it was urgent he let her know. Nick had kept the message for seventy-two hours now. The beeping reminder soothed Nick, even as it made him burn with shame. He watched the kids all around him—the athletes diving to score a point, the dancers gyrating to their iPods, and the indoor kids huddled around a stack of Pokémon cards—everyone escaping into some kind of fantasy. They were playing, and in a way Nick felt like that’s what he was doing, too—playing with the idea of staying put, of not embarking upon this next step of cohabitation, of wondering whether the Genevieve incident was some kind of sign, of letting Emma down and thus safeguarding himself.
It was cowardly, of course, but Nick had been raised to always have a Plan B. It was why he invariably looked up an alternate subway route and why he stored a week’s worth of canned goods in his pantry (for which Emma made merciless fun of him, often forecasting imminent disaster). You never knew what might happen to derail your plans. Nick needed this particular Plan B. Because what if they really didn’t find another apartment? Or what if Emma found out about Genevieve and not only bagged the cohabitation idea but the whole relationship, too? Or what if Nick decided to give in to the part of him that was paralyzed with anxiety by the idea of moving in with his girlfriend?
Commitment-wise, Nick understood that moving in wasn’t getting married, and it certainly wasn’t having a baby—that truly unbreakable bond with another person. Most of his friends from childhood had long since tethered themselves to a wife, taken on a mortgage (although, to Nick’s credit, that was much more manageable in suburban Ohio than in New York City), and were now onto their second or third kid, coaching their sports teams and limiting their socializing to weekly football with the guys. But contrary to what some people claimed, Nick felt moving in was a big deal. He’d heard enough horror stories of couples who’d jumped into it too soon, broken up, and then had to keep living together since neither person could afford the lease solo. One acquaintance had thrown out his back from sleeping on an air mattress; another’s ex had had the nerve to bring home one-night stands to their studio. Not that Emma would ever do that to Nick (and he hoped he wouldn’t do such a thing to her, although who knew, considering recent events?). But the point was, Nick was scared. He knew he would eventually tell his landlady no, that he wouldn’t extend his lease, but he wasn’t yet ready to make the call.
Nick went to chuck his coffee, careful not to get tangled in the undulating jump ropes nearby. Along with their fancy footwork, the double-dutchers were chanting what sounded to Nick like: “Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived.” Weird. He asked his student Jasmine what it was all about.
“Ms. Mitchell taught us,” the girl said. “It’s about a king who married a whole buncha wives, but he ditched each of ’em in crazy ways. We like jumping to it.”
“Ah, Henry the Eighth,” Nick said, wondering why playground rhymes were always so absurd. He remembered the girls in his elementary school had sung a song praising the taste of Winston cigarettes. Jasmine executed a particularly deft jump as she yelled out, “Beheaded!” How morbid. Nick imagined Emma’s head on the chopping block, and immediately felt guilty. Of course he wanted to live with her. He asked Mrs. Gould to cover for him, and then slipped away to call back his landlady and say he was moving. Where, of course, and how they would afford it, he still didn’t know.
On his way to Emma’s, Nick stopped home to check his mail: catalog, Vegetarian Times magazine, and—shit—a thick packet from the hospital in D.C. Nick tucked the unopened envelope into his bag, too terrified to find out what his insurance hadn’t covered of the three-day stay. That was reason enough to move, he thought, to dodge the bill collectors. Nick’s bank account had dwindled to nearly nothing, and he wouldn’t get paid again until October first. To calm his nerves, he ducked into a deli and grabbed a six-pack, charging it to his card.
That night, as Emma compiled a list of apartments to look at that weekend, Nick couldn’t get the double-dutch rhyme out of his head: Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived. It seemed like a bad omen, although at least it ended somewhat positively—“thrived” would’ve been better. “Emma,” he said, “we need to talk.”
She looked up from her scribbling.
“I’m in trouble here. I don’t know if you can front the money for renting a new place, but I just don’t have it.”
“Well,” she said, not skipping a beat, “hopefully we can find a place where they only ask for first month’s rent. And, let’s see, I get paid next Friday, the twenty-eighth, so maybe a landlord would let us wait to pay until then. I’ll go down to the court next week to start our case against Luis. Hopefully we’ll get our money back soon.”
“Before October first? As in ten days from now?”
“You never know.”
“Em.”
“What?” She’d gone back to her list. Her talent for denial was almost admirable.
“Come on, Em, you know none of those things is going to happen.”
When she looked up, Nick saw that her eyes were glassy with tears. “Shit,” she said, “Shit, shit, shit.” It seemed she’d been working so hard to stay positive that, now that she’d abandoned the act, she was falling apart. Nick felt himself copping out of the other piece of his confession.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I feel like we can’t win. I mean, how many weddings did we have this summer—five? And do you have any idea what I spent on Annie’s bridal shower and bachelorette party, not to mention that Versace maid-of-honor dress? I won’t even get into my monthly student loan bill—I’ll be paying for grad school till I’m fifty. But still, I bring lunch to work every day. I put money aside every paycheck. I hardly ever buy twelve-dollar cocktails, no matter how delicious they look. I’ve been so good! How was I supposed to know I’d have to save up for two moves, not just one?” She was trembling, and Nick pulled her onto his lap. “You know what’s crazy? Last time I talked to my parents, they went on and on about how free they feel now that they’ve cashed in all their savings, and how amazing it’s been to just start over and live simply. To them being broke is romantic.”
“They think everything is romantic, don’t they?”
“Yes! They really do live on a totally different planet from the rest of us.”
Nick rubbed Emma’s back, thinking how inconvenient it was, considering their predicament, that her once-wealthy parents had gone bohemian. Personally he found it crass how openly the Feits talked about their finances, but to them it was a hobby. They still lived better than most everyone he knew, with their sprawling pied-à-terre and extravagant wine collection. Still, Nick knew that if Emma went to them for help, they’d start preaching about silver linings, supposedly to buck her up, but then provide no actual help. Nick had supported Emma in the aftermath of many such previous lectures.
“Emma, we need a backup plan.” Nick had already given this a lot of thought. After abandoning his other Plan B of staying put in his apartment, he’d considered who might lend them money. His parents were not an option. They’d always made it clear how proud they were to help Nick through college, but graduation was the end of the line, period; when he visited home, he and his dad split nine-dollar diner tabs right down the middle. But there was another relative of Emma’s: “So I know you don’t love the idea of asking your brother for help—”
“Max?! Are you kidding me? No way in hell am I turning to Max for money.”
“Well, it would just be a loan.”
“To think of Alysse lording that over me every time I saw her. To have her look at me with her sad doe eyes and say, all fake-concerned, ‘So how are you guys doi
ng, really?’ as if she wouldn’t love every minute of us being her charity case. No. I’d honestly rather be homeless than ask them for a pay-out.”
“Well, we may just end up homeless then.”
“How about I ask Annie? Eli is loaded, and I’m sure they’d help us out.”
Nick bristled. Eli was no more than an acquaintance, plus he considered himself such a hotshot. Nick couldn’t imagine involving him in their finances. He’d probably tell his asshole buddy Connor all about it, too. “No way,” he said.
“Why not? Annie is my best friend.”
“I don’t have a good feeling about it.”
“You’re being inflexible.”
“Max is your family. I think you’re being inflexible.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Emma stormed out of the room, murmuring something about a client. Nick sighed, thinking the only way that conversation could’ve gone worse is if he’d added, “By the way, I hooked up with Gen.” He popped open a beer and pulled out a stack of student papers on America’s thirteen colonies, determined to use grading as a distraction.
That night in bed, Emma squeezed herself into a tight ball, making no physical contact with Nick’s body. Nick lay awake on his side of the mattress, fantasizing about being Christopher Columbus, coming to America, and laying claim to the land, natives be damned. Of course the so-called founding of our country had been chauvinistic and inhumane, Columbus Day a fraud—Nick knew these things and taught them to his kids. But at the moment, the idea of colonization sounded quite appealing to Nick, arriving and declaring a space your home, no talk of landlord or rent or lease, simple and done.
“What kind of person sells their hair?” José yelled out.
“And who would buy human hair?” Sierra chimed in.
“They sell combs for a dollar on the subway. That’s a pretty cheap-ass present.”
“Watch your language, Lawrence. Everyone else, calm down.” This discussion was not going the way Nick had intended. He’d asked his students to respond to O. Henry’s “The Gift of the Magi.” They were all always talking about jeans they simply had to buy or a cell phone upgrade that would transform their lives, and Nick wanted them to consider the importance of relationships over material things. It wasn’t working.
“Mr. O’Hare, this story is dumb.” José again. “Della and the dude shoulda just asked each other what they wanted. And what’s a fob anyway? Sounds like a you-know-what.” He gestured to the front of his pants, and the class erupted in laughter.
“Guys, it’s supposed to be ironic,” said Nick. “Remember irony? Della and James love each other so much that they’re willing to sacrifice their most prized possessions—her hair and his watch—in order to buy each other something special. Even though they each end up with items they can’t use, a comb for Della, and a watch part for James—José, a fob is a kind of chain—they see how much the other one loves them.”
Blank stares all around. Nick decided to cut the lesson short and move on to math.
At lunch, he called Emma—on her cell, not through Genevieve—to vent.
“You read them ‘The Gift of the Magi’? Of course they hated it.”
“What do you mean? It’s romantic!”
“No, it’s depressing,” said Emma. “The couple is broke and then they end up broker, plus the girl gets her hair chopped off. And it’s horribly sentimental. Also, isn’t that a Christmas story? It’s September.”
“Yeah, but …” Nick trailed off. He realized now that, more so than his students, he wanted Emma to get the moral about love prevailing over money. Maybe he wanted to convince himself, too.
“I have an idea for your next lesson,” Emma said.
“Yeah?”
“Cue up cartoons all day. I bet you won’t get any more complaints from the kids.”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“My point is, you’re not there to entertain them, right? So don’t take it so hard when they’re hard on you. News flash, Nick: Most kids don’t like school.”
“I know,” Nick sighed. He appreciated these pep talks.
“So have you thought any more about us asking Annie for money? I’m sure the wedding bucks are pouring in—all she’d have to do is redirect a few checks our way.”
“Emma, no, sorry. We’ll figure something else out.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “Gotta run, client calling.”
Nick paced the block around his school, over and over chanting to himself the Henry VIII playground rhyme: “Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived.” Striding to its beat, he indulged himself in what ifs: What if he’d gone to law school and now pulled in six figures? What if he robbed a bank and never got caught? What if he played the lottery, won, and—poof!—all of their problems disappeared? This last option was the only mildly feasible one. The lottery was a terrible Plan B, but Nick figured it was worth a shot. He ducked into a bodega and eyed the scratch-offs. He was about to order five Lucky 7s when he heard, “Mr. O’Hare!”
Two of Nick’s students tailed him in line. “Oh, hey, guys.”
So instead of the scratch-offs he bought a pint of milk, which he then chucked in a corner trashcan, cursing his kids for forcing him to always set a good example. Feeling despondently out of options, he dialed Emma: “If you really want to ask Annie for help, go ahead. But make sure she gets that it would be a loan, that we’d pay interest, and—”
“Listen, I have an even better solution! I spoke to Annie—she was literally watching a lion sleep while we talked; it sounded amazing. They have a week more of safari, and then they’re doing the whole city thing before they’re back in town on the eighth.”
“Their honeymoon is over a month long?”
“You know Annie. Anyway, she said we could crash at their apartment until then, and after that we can stick around in the guest room for as long as we need. Plus they have basement storage where we can keep all our stuff. I know it’s not ideal to live at their place, especially once they’re back, but this way we’ll have time—we’ll both get another paycheck—and we can look for a place for October fifteenth.”
Nick wanted to jump up and down like a lunatic. As usual, Emma had solved everything. “That’s perfect. I love you.”
“I know you do. And I gotta go, babe. My next appointment.”
That night, Emma used her spare key to let them into Eli’s SoHo dream apartment, and they took a look around their new temporary digs as of next week. Despite Emma’s protests, Nick snuck into Eli’s closet. Among the designer suits and perfectly shined wingtips and other items that even smelled expensive, he discovered a red velvet robe. Nick threw it over his shoulders and strutted into the bedroom, where Emma was laid out on the bed flipping through a magazine.
“I am Henry the Eighth,” he proclaimed on a whim, hoping Emma was game to role-play. She usually was. “And you, my adulterous wife, deserve to be punished.”
Emma yelped, “No, I didn’t do it! Don’t hurt me!” and ran from the room. Nick chased her to the living room, where she’d draped herself dramatically across a couch. Nick hesitated a moment—the couch was white leather—but then pounced upon his girlfriend, berating her for her inability to bear him an heir.
“Give me another chance,” she cried, tearing off her clothing. “I’ll give you a son, I know I will, the future king of France!”
“England.”
“Yes, the future king of England.”
“I don’t believe you, you unfaithful lout. After I ravage you one more time, I’ll have to behead you.”
“Oh, how I’ll shame my family, the, um, the—”
“The Boleyns.”
“Ah yes, the whole Boleyn clan will be cast out of high society. That’s a fate I couldn’t bear.”
“You better bear it, Anne.”
“Anne?” Emma said, out of character, pausing her hips’ movements. “As in Annie? Is that what this is about, you have a thing for my friend?”
“Silence, my minx of a wife,” Nick said, his voice cracking. His heart pounded. “I’ll chop off your head!”
A devilish smile appeared on Emma’s face. Just as Nick finished, she cocked her neck to the side and enacted a dramatic death by guillotine, titillating and terrifying both.
Chapter 18
“Bunking up with Annie for a few weeks, how fun!” Emma’s mother’s eyes popped; this was a frequent occurrence in their Skype conversations, and Emma suspected it had something to do with the screen’s pixilation. Still it made her recoil. “It’ll be like your sleepovers from the old days.”
Emma was taking a break from packing, which she’d been doing for hours, and her stomach groaned. As her mom chatted from her bakery, she picked at a flaky pastry, and Emma wished she could reach through the Internet to tear off a piece. “Yeah, it’s super-generous.” Emma could hear that she was doing “the voice.” Before meeting Nick, she’d never noticed that when talking to her mother she raised her pitch and added a singsongy lilt. It drove Nick crazy, and now it caused Emma to cringe, too. Despite this, Emma couldn’t control it, and it made her annoyed at her mother, unfairly, she knew.
“Well, isn’t everything working out nicely for you two, after a few little hiccups.” This last phrase grated on Emma. “You’re such New Yorkers, navigating this crazy apartment rental process. And now you’ll get free rent for a couple of weeks, right?”
“I guess so,” said Emma, “but we lost a ton of money on the other place.”
“Oh, but you’ll get it all back in court. I can just picture you arguing your case, a total natural. I always thought you, not Max, would end up being our family’s lawyer. My feisty little Emma! Can’t you see Emma being a star before a jury, dear?” She was shouting to Emma’s dad, who now ducked into the frame to wave. Onscreen, he always looked squinty and flummoxed.
If We Lived Here Page 18