Superfan

by Sarina Bowen

  “Wow,” Sarah breathes. “Nice place.”

  “Isn’t it pretty?” I’ve already spent a fair amount of time staring at the realtor’s photographs and squinting at the floor plan, trying to imagine my life in this space.

  It was surprisingly easy to do that, and it’s even better in person. Golden light bounces off the exposed bricks and the honeyed wood floors. Big windows show Brooklyn to its best advantage.

  “That kitchen,” Sarah says with a sigh.

  “I know!” I turn around and admire the sleek cabinets and high-tech faucet. “It almost makes me want to learn to cook. Do you cook?”

  “Nope. I’m terrible. That’s what takeout is for.”

  We both laugh.

  “Okay,” I say. “So here’s my question. I’ve never had to build a home studio before. My L.A. studio was already done up when I rented the place. And even so, I’ve never recorded anything there that needed to sound great. So how do musicians do this in New York? Like, what if I buy this apartment, and it’s an acoustic disaster?”

  Sarah walks slowly across the space and peers into the bedrooms, one at a time. “Okay, in the first place, New York makes every musician a little bit crazy. I mean, it’s the best place and the worst place in the world to be a musician. It’s a great music town. But it’s pricey as shit.”

  “So every musician has this problem?”

  “Yup. And every apartment is potentially an acoustic disaster. You can’t control everything. What if a tap dancer moves in above you?”

  We both lift our chins and look up at the high plaster ceiling, as if there was something to be learned up there.

  “The thing is, though, if you have a little money, you can solve any acoustical problem. It’s really just about how you want to live in this space. You could hire somebody to cover over every surface of one of these bedrooms, and truly soundproof the whole place. But that seems like a shame, right? It’s so attractive the way it is.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If it was me, I’d turn one room into an office-slash-composing space. And leave it looking like this. Then I’d install a prebuilt booth for those moments when you really need a good take.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her eyebrows disappear behind her glasses’ frames. “Oh my gosh, let me show you. I look at these websites the way some people look at expensive shoes…” She taps her phone a few times and then hands it to me.

  There’s a photo of another beautiful apartment. In the corner, there’s a bright orange recording booth—like an oversized phone booth with a handsome man playing a saxophone inside of it. “Oh. And these work?”

  “They’re amazing. But they’re not cheap. I’d spend the money, but I don’t own my apartment so…” She shrugs. “You can buy a really small one if you don’t want to give up much of the room. Or some of them fit two or three musicians, if you want to work that way. See?”

  The next photo is another stunning living space with a recording booth right off the kitchen. “Wow, okay.” Maybe this isn’t as complicated as I thought.

  “How have you never seen this before? People have them in L.A.”

  “I told you I’m kind of a hermit, Sarah.”

  “And I thought you were exaggerating.” She takes her phone back and taps the screen. “I’m sending you the link. But there are two or three companies who make these. I have mine all spec’ed out, of course, the way some people price out cars. It’s a two-seater in lime green.” Her smile is adorable.

  “Thank you. I appreciate the help.”

  “Anytime!”

  She leaves a few minutes later. But I don’t. I spend a nice long time strolling around in the empty rooms, thinking.

  Silas

  At about six o’clock I shoot a text to Delilah. We’re going to watch some film, and I’ll be home by seven thirty. What do you want to do about dinner?

  She replies immediately. Takeout! I’ll handle it if you tell me what you want. And it’s okay if you say pizza again. I won’t judge.

  I laugh out loud. A week in Brooklyn, and she already knows which things my friends give me crap about. My pizza addiction and my musical habits. Although they don’t tease me about listening to Delilah’s music anymore now that they understand why I was her superfan.

  Pizza, though. It’s still a problem. Since you brought it up, pizza sounds great. I’m in the mood for a meatball pie.

  Will do! See you at 7:30!

  I’m the first guy out of the video room when our session is over. They guys will give me some shit about that, too. I don’t care, because I get home right on time. But when I arrive at my apartment door, there’s a sticky note on it.

  I remove the sticky note and just stare at it for a second. Silas—I’m in 309. That’s Dave’s apartment—the empty one. I’ve managed not to bring it up again—not since that one time I sent her the photograph. She’s been enjoying herself this week, and I wasn’t about to ruin it by pressuring her to stay.

  Although I want that.

  It’s a short trip down the hall. I knock with the backs of my knuckles. Since the place is nearly empty, my knock echoes inside.

  “Come in!” she calls. When I try the door handle, it’s unlocked. Inside, I find Delilah seated on the sofa that Heidi and I put there a few weeks ago. She glances up at me, and I have to pause there a moment and take in the whole picture. She’s wearing a black T-shirt, just like the first time I met her. Her hair is swept up in a loose bun, where a bitten pencil seems to hold it in place. Her face is bathed in candlelight and a shy smile.

  I have never seen such a beautiful sight in my life. And I’m not just saying that because there’s a Grimaldi’s pizza box on the rented coffee table. Plus a bottle of wine and two of my own wine glasses.

  “Well, hello there,” I say as I close the door behind me. I drop my gym bag to the floor. “Did you decide we need some peace and quiet tonight?” I cross the room to sit down beside her.

  “No, it’s not like that. But there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  I glance around this gorgeous room. I wish this were our couch, in our place. But I keep that idea to myself for now. What I wouldn’t give to come home to her like this on a regular basis. “What’s up, buttercup?”

  “You remember how I gave you that big speech in Darlington Beach? The one about needing you to check in with me instead of planning my life for me? And how much I appreciate that?”

  “Yeah?” Have I overstepped? I wrack my brain, wondering what I did. “That does sound familiar.”

  “Well, today I didn’t show you the same courtesy. And I’m feeling a little worried. I did a thing without asking.”

  Oh, phew. This isn’t about me at all. “What thing? You changed my pizza order?”

  She gives me a little poke in the ribs. “I made an offer on this apartment.”

  “You…” I play that back in my head a couple times just to make sure I heard correctly. “Really?”

  “Yep. I made an offer at the new asking price. So I can’t imagine your teammate will turn me down. And it’s a cash offer, too, so…” She studies her fingernails.

  I let out a genuine whoop of joy. “And you thought maybe I wouldn’t like that?”

  “Well, it is awful presumptuous of me. I’ve been visiting only a week. And I did it without us discussing it first. It does sound a little crazy.”

  Not to me. “If I recall, I put this bug in your ear in the first place. So you weren’t exactly flying blind, here. But who says I care about crazy? You and I can be a little crazy. We’re never going to be a normal couple—the kind who’s introduced at a cocktail party. The kind who goes out on a few dates, then escalate smoothly, like a jet taking off. Sex on the third date. No psycho exes or missed chances on a beach…”

  She’s laughing, and I love that sound. “I guess that ship has sailed.”

  “Right? I mean, maybe someday we’ll be guests at that kind of cocktail party. And some well-meaning person wi
ll ask—how did you two get together? And you’ll turn to him and say, ‘How much time do you have?’”

  She’s laughing so hard she leans against me and shakes.

  I flip open the pizza box and grab a slice.

  “So it’s okay with you?” she gasps. “That I’m buying an apartment down the hall from yours?”

  “It’s more than okay with me. In fact, I hope that one of these days you’ll invite me to move my stuff out of that one and into this one. But if you want to do this stepwise—dormitory style—I’m good with that.”

  She takes a slice of pizza, too. “If we don’t work out, then I will have made things super awkward and sad.”

  “It would be sad. But it would be even sadder not to try,” I say before cramming more pizza into my mouth. “That’s what I think, anyway.”

  She covers my free hand with hers. “Thank you for just rolling with this.”

  “You’re giving me exactly what I want,” I admit. “So I’m not just rolling with anything.” We chew our pizza while my head spins. “I do have questions.”

  “Hit me.”

  “What about Becky?” I hate to think of Delilah trying to settle in a town where she has nobody but me.

  “Becky is ready for this. She’s busy calling all her old friends who live anywhere remotely near Brooklyn and asking them if they know anyone who needs a roommate. Becky grew up in Connecticut. She’s no stranger to these parts.”

  “Oh.” Well, that’s handy.

  “Becky’s been to more New York pizzerias than I have.”

  “Not like that’s hard. We have to broaden your horizons. And what about security? Will you let me ask Carl to find you somebody?” When I start traveling in a few weeks, I’ll worry.

  “I already made that call. He said his firm could handle whatever I need, and he’d find me a daytime bodyguard that I like.”

  “That’s really all my questions, then.”

  “I’ll have to go home to L.A. for a while, anyway, and figure out my move. Besides, my offer hasn’t been accepted yet. I might be rearranging your expectations for nothing.”

  “Oh, it will be. Any delay is because Dave is frolicking on a Vermont hillside somewhere, too busy to look at his phone.” Absently, I grab the wine bottle and remove the foil. I pick up the corkscrew and start turning before I remember. “Whoops! Sorry. I’m going to let you do this.” Delilah is back to drinking things that she unseals herself. Phobias can’t always be vanquished by one bold sip of coffee in a hospital room and some positive thinking.

  And I really don’t blame her. I’m still having bad dreams about the night she was drugged. Sometimes in the dream, I can’t reach her. And then I wake up in a cold sweat.

  “You open it,” she says.

  “Yeah?” I finish the job, then pour her a glass and offer it to her.

  With a look of determination, she takes it from my hand and immediately takes a sip.

  “What, you couldn’t wait for the toast?” I tease.

  She frowns, and then notices my grin. “You asshole!”

  I cackle. Then I lift my glass. “To new apartments and big risks.”

  We touch glasses, and I hold her eyes while we both take a sip. Then we sit back to admire the view. Outside, the sun is setting. The sky over Manhattan is streaked with orange.

  “God, I fucking love this place,” Delilah exclaims. She grabs her phone off the table and peeks at the lock screen. “No message yet. But the realtor seemed pretty excited to hear from me.”

  “It will come,” I promise. I wrap an arm around her. “Nice kitchen, by the way. I like that it’s open plan.”

  “I like it, too. I like everything about it. I want to furnish a condo, like grownups do. I moved into Brett’s place with a suitcase, and moved out with barely more. I’m going to choose furniture, damn it.”

  A gurgle of laughter escapes me.

  “I know I sound like a diva right now,” she says, patting my knee. “I promise not to make everything pink and girly.” She sets her wine glass down and turns to me.

  “Like I’d care,” I say. “I laughed because choosing furniture does not sound fun to me. I’ll sit on whatever.” Just to prove the point, I set my glass down, too. Then I move my ass onto her lap and gingerly sit down.

  “Ralph!” she complains. “That’s not funny.”

  “Switch with me, then?”

  “Fine.”

  I move off of her, sitting on the couch. Then I put my hands on her waist and turn her around so that she’s straddling me. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she breathes.

  I run a hand up her black T-shirt. “This is almost what you were wearing when I met you.”

  “Almost?” she blinks, clearly having no memory of her clothing that fateful day.

  “Your shirt said, Kind of a Big Deal.”

  “Oh!” She grins. “I remember. That was my favorite shirt for a while.”

  “Not any longer?”

  “I gave it away a long time ago. Anytime I wore that shirt I meant it as irony. But after you start selling out stadiums, it just makes you look like a diva.”

  “Just so you know? You were kind of a big deal to me then. And you still are now.”

  Her face softens. “You say the nicest things.”

  “I mean them,” I whisper.

  “I know,” she whispers back. “That’s what makes it nice.”

  “Delilah—I love you, sweetheart. I know it’s soon. And I don’t want you to feel obligated to—”

  “I love you, too,” she says. “Even if my life is still a mess. You’re just so easy to love.”

  My heart swells. “Kiss me?” I ask, lifting my chin. “I’ve been hungry for you all day.”

  With a smile, she leans over to comply. I wrap my hand around her hair and take what I need. Her mouth is silk against mine. One kiss leads me right into another. I use my free hand to stroke down the smooth skin of her arm and tug her closer.

  Pretty soon we’re hardcore making out on a rented couch, half our pizza forgotten. And my heart isn’t the only thing swelling. “Delilah,” I whisper.

  “Yes?” she breathes into my mouth.

  “We could christen this place tonight. Break it in. Try it out.”

  “Is that good luck?” she asks, her smile rubbing mine.

  “Totally,” I say, and she laughs. “Couch or kitchen counter?” I murmur as I slide her T-shirt up.

  “Both,” she says, removing my shirt and then wrapping her arms around me. We’re skin to skin. “We’ve earned it.”

  She’s right. We have.

  Eight Months Later

  Silas

  I’m face down in our bed, Delilah’s naked body pressed against mine. Sunlight is streaming through the window, and my alarm is sounding. I reach out a hand and fumble around until I silence it. Then I push my face into my pillow again and sigh.

  It’s April, and we’ve already clinched a playoffs spot. So that’s awesome. And today’s my birthday, which is nice too, I guess. Delilah and I had very energetic sex until two in the morning in celebration.

  I do not want to wake up, though. Because we’re leaving on the last road trip of the season this morning. It’s been a great season. An epic season. But I don’t want to leave. Not when the bed is this comfortable, and the girl beside me so warm and naked.

  We lasted until Christmas in separate apartments. When Jason and Heidi got engaged, I started paying attention to the real estate listings, just in case something in our building came open. Or something across the street. I didn’t want to rush Delilah, but I didn’t want to stay forever as a third wheel in the apartment down the hall.

  Then Delilah caught me reading a message from the building administrator on my phone, and she immediately asked me to move in for real.

  “Are you sure?” I’d asked. “I’d never rush you.”

  “I know that,” she’d promised. “And I really needed to at least pretend to sort out my own life for a little while. But yo
u’re part of my life, and you’re the reason I’m in New York. And I don’t feel so fearful anymore.”

  So I’d moved in the next day, only to find that Delilah had left half the closet empty this whole time.

  “For you, obviously. I always intended to live here with you. I just needed to do it stepwise.”

  Now I slip out of our bed, careful not to wake her. I pull on some boxers and shuffle into the kitchen, where Delilah’s coffee machine waits. She chose everything with quiet deliberation, sometimes asking my advice or Becky’s, or Heidi’s.

  I hit the button on the machine that starts the whole process—grinding the beans, and brewing the coffee. From the cabinet, I pull two Brooklyn Bruisers mugs. Her selection, again. But they’re a choice made because of me.

  When I moved in, Delilah apologized for keeping me waiting and for setting up the whole place before she installed me in it, too. “You’re not unimportant to the equation; in fact, you’re the most important,” she’d said the first night we lay together in what was not yet our bed. “But—”

  “I get it,” I’d promised her. And I do. Standing in the well-appointed kitchen is like living with Delilah’s most high-functioning, happiest self.

  This place is home, and it’s been amazing to watch Delilah find her groove. She has friends here. There’s Becky, and Songwriter Sarah. And various music people at her new record label, which is part of her old record label in a way that I don’t completely understand. But after Lucky Hearts went platinum, Delilah and Charla decided to stick with one of the executives they knew for album number three.

  Delilah is in a good place. And I’m the lucky guy who comes home to her whenever neither of us is traveling. She’s going on tour this summer, and whenever my team is done with the postseason (and please let that not be too soon) I’ll be joining her for the European part of that tour. Paris. Rome. Berlin. I can’t wait.

  Meanwhile, she’s writing new music in her home studio—the room formerly known as Dave’s extra bedroom. Where my retired teammate used to keep his exercise equipment, Delilah has guitars, comfortable chairs, and a soundproof recording booth that looks a little like something from a Dr. Who episode.