“Do you go to things like this often?” I ask Raj.
“More often than I used to, now that my work schedule is a little less hectic,” he says, considering it. “Not as often as I’d like.”
“I like this,” I tell him.
He squeezes my hand. “Good.”
Soon, the host encourages us to disperse throughout the venue for private readings. The poets leave the stage to install themselves in various spots. Penelope Strangelight is making her way across the main floor when she does a double take by us.
“Raj!” she exclaims, breaking character and hugging him. “You made it. Awesome.”
It occurs to me that I have no idea how close they are, or how much she knows about me.
Luckily, Raj introduces me. “This is Eliza, my . . . girlfriend?” It’s like he’s testing out the word for the first time. He turns to me in confusion. “Are you my girlfriend?”
Penelope laughs loudly. I just sputter in shock.
“Uh . . . maybe? I mean, I think so? Or not? Up to you?” I ramble.
“Come on, you two, I have a poem that’s perfect for you,” she says. I notice for the first time that she has a lightly lilting British accent.
Bewildered, we both follow her through the throng of people, past the bar, and outside to a patio that appears to be home to a flock of nude Greek statues. As we walk, I can’t help but frantically mutter to Raj.
“I mean, it’s not like I don’t want to be your girlfriend,” I explain in a panicked whisper. “We just hadn’t talked about it in those terms yet.”
“Even though we might get married next weekend?” he fires back.
I study his expression: he looks sheepish, maybe a little embarrassed, but not mad. That’s good.
“I’m your girlfriend, then,” I say. “Let’s give this a real try.”
He shakes his head like he can’t believe me. “Girlfriend,” he says slowly, grinning, like he’s getting used to calling me that.
Penelope clears her throat and we fall into silence. She plants herself among the statues, makes thoughtful eye contact with each of us, and launches into a poem about new love:
Oh, darling, whoever you aren’t,
we’re naked in another yellow bed.
Winter’s coming and I’ve learned enough
skin that it’s like sky
to me. All the curtains in Brooklyn
are cream-colored linen and tied
in bows like nervous tongues
along white windowsills.
Indian summer spent
tumble-weeding through
subway systems, white
pavements, gardens to basement
bedrooms with rainwater blistered
ceilings to coil my body like a broken spring
in another mattress.
I would like to mean something
soon. To wake along
the frayed edge of morning
and unravel
the afternoon together, eat oranges in bed
and plant my toothbrush
in a porcelain socket like a flag.
Oh darling, whoever you aren’t,
let me learn your mathematics—
the important numbers—birthdays,
siblings, alarm codes, lovers—how many
months the bread’s been there, how
many days since you phoned your mother,
how many drinks until you’re whiskey silly,
how many ecstasies you can find in me.
White sky over Brooklyn, the endlessness
of new skin. I’ll whittle
these clouds into water—though I’m hoping
for ice, for the snap of weight and bright resistance,
for a white bone through skin—
for your bones, darling, for your skin.
It’s a startling sensation to hear your own inner thoughts—the ones you might not have ever fully admitted to yourself—spoken out loud in gorgeous poetic imagery here in this bizarre sculpture garden at a fun house disco. When she’s finished, Penelope concludes with a small curtsy. Raj fishes a five-dollar bill out of his wallet as a tip, per the event’s rules.
“Enjoy your evening, babes,” she says, slipping past us into the bar to find another group of listeners. “Good to see you, Raj.”
“That was beautiful,” I say, once we’re alone.
“It really was,” he agrees.
There’s a lull, and I can tell we both want to say more.
“It made me feel . . .” I try to search for the right words. “It made me feel exactly the way I feel about you? Like this is new and good and I want more.”
He nods. “Yeah. That’s exactly it. It was eerie.”
“Eerie, but kind of perfect,” I muse.
We’re close enough to kiss, but I’m not sure I’m brave enough to initiate that. I want to protect what we have from my own brash impulses. I don’t want to mess up again, like I did that morning in my apartment. Maybe I shouldn’t worry, because Raj leans in so slowly to kiss me I can feel his eyelashes brushing my skin. I like the way his kisses warm up from gentle to enthusiastic; one hand slides up my back and another caresses my cheek. When we eventually break apart, I can see him smiling.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, ruffling his hair.
I’ve spent enough time with him to recognize it as something he does when he’s just the tiniest bit nervous. I try to soothe him by kissing him again.
“Of course,” I say. “Let’s go. My place?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”
I call an Uber. Anticipation crackles between us in the backseat of the driver’s car. I slouch down on the seat so I can rest my head on Raj’s shoulder. He dangles his fingers on the curve of my knee. An indie pop song floats from the radio like we’re in a music video. He kisses a soft trail from my temple to my ear; I shift in my seat, and soon, we’re making out again.
On the surface, none of this is new: I’ve made out with plenty of people in the backseats of late-night Ubers. The difference is that this time, there’s this odd sense of potential. This could be the last first time I take a guy back to my place. Part of me is afraid to move the wrong way and ruin the moment, but another part of me feels supremely confident—I can’t make the wrong move, because whatever is between us is so perfectly right. He likes me. He gets me. Forget the lackluster chemistry and robotic kisses on my past dates: this is how dating should be. And the best part? It’s Raj, who not only makes me feel so at ease around him, but also has his hand on my shoulder with his fingers slipping beneath the neckline of my dress. His touch is magnetic.
When the driver drops us off at my place, there’s no question that Raj will come upstairs with me. His hands linger playfully on my waist as I fumble with the lock and key.
Once we’re inside, I gesture vaguely to the refrigerator. “Do you want, um, a beer? Water? Seltzer?” I offer.
“I’m good,” he says. “You don’t have to, like, host me. I’m here for you.”
“Wait,” I say, suddenly inspired.
I’m struck by a desire to make tonight special. I slide down the dimmer on my light switch to minimize the stark effect of my bright white walls. I light the candle on my coffee table; the flickering golden light and heady scent of sandalwood create a softer atmosphere. I turn on my speaker and queue up the sultry R&B playlist I sometimes like to listen to when I’m alone. I take off my earrings and place them on my nightstand.
Raj doesn’t even bother with the pretense of sitting politely on my couch. Instead, he follows my lead when I step out of my shoes and crawl onto my bed. I’m glad I took the time earlier to make it look cozy and inviting. I recline against the oversized pillows; he props himself up on his elbows and stretches out along the length of the bed. I expect another kiss like the one in the car, but the newfound sense of privacy stirs something in Raj. His mouth moves more passionately over mine; his hands explore more; his grip is firmer than
it was before. My dress slips down over my shoulder, and he plants a row of kisses on the bare skin there.
I feel warm and relaxed in his arms, so I sit up and shimmy my dress over my head. I shake out my hair so it spills across my back. I revel in the hungry, appreciative look in his eyes. He responds by tugging his T-shirt over his head to reveal a smattering of dark chest hair and more of those well-proportioned arms I’ve thought about so many times. For the past few weeks, there’s been an ever-present buzz of stress in the back of my mind, but now, it melts away. All I care about is the feeling of his lips and skin against mine.
I reach for his belt buckle and pause with my fingers on the smooth metal.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
“Go ahead,” he says, nodding.
I loosen the buckle and his zipper, and he tugs off his pants, though he keeps his black boxer briefs on. In the past, with other guys, I’ve sometimes moved from kissing to stripping down to sex in rote fashion, like I was simply working my way through a checklist. A handful of times, I felt this unspoken pressure to keep progressing, even if I really wanted to slow down. But mostly, I just didn’t have the desire to linger. Now, however, I find myself wanting to savor the process of discovering Raj’s body inch by inch. There’s something luxurious about lounging in bed with no rush. From the tender way his hands skim over my breasts and hips and thighs, I can tell he feels the same way. I explore the planes of his chest, the divot of his lower back, and the trail of hair below his belly button.
His fingers weave through my hair and his body wedges deliciously against mine, but I want more. I move more urgently against him; the way his hips roll against mine makes me think he wants me, too. I feel his warm hand slip under the edge of my silky underwear and my breath catches. I fumble for his waistband, too.
“I want you so badly,” he says, his voice low.
“Should I grab a condom?” I ask.
“If you want to later,” he says, moving down my body toward the end of the bed.
The sensation of his tongue against me makes me feel like I’m glowing. The candlelight, the music—it all goes hazy. And eventually, when it’s time to grab a condom, my fingers shake too badly to rip open the packet. I laugh and hand it to him. He manages better than I do.
Sex with Raj feels seamless, like the most obvious thing in the world. I forget why we haven’t done this a million times before. He squeezes my ass in a way that makes me moan; his breath grows ragged as his motions turn more fervent. When he finishes, he collapses with his forehead buried in my shoulder. I can feel his pulse pounding against my chest. He rolls over and scoops his arm around my body so there’s plenty of room for me to curl up next to him. I relax against his torso and appreciate how easy and comfortable it is.
After a moment, I mumble into his chest, “That was amazing.”
“You’re amazing,” he replies, stroking my hair.
“No, I mean it,” I say.
He laughs lightly, still catching his breath. “I do, too.”
“It’d suck if after all this buildup, we were terrible together,” I say.
“I don’t think that would even be possible,” he says.
If I were a different sort of person—a calmer sort of person—this would be the moment I drift blissfully into slumber in my new, hot boyfriend’s arms with nary a worry. But, of course, that’s not who I am. My mind whirs with visions and questions. I can’t help but imagine Raj looking so sharp and handsome in a tux at the Wythe Hotel next Saturday. I hate that I can picture him stomping on the napkin-wrapped glass under the canopy of the chuppah—the one Jewish wedding tradition that always makes me cry. I wonder if the trajectory of our evening together has swayed him toward or against showing up for me in that ridiculously grand way. But as magical as tonight has been, I’m not sure it’s enough. I’m not sure anything could be enough.
The more I think about it, the more my thoughts breeze past the wedding and toward something else entirely: a thousand more nights just like this one. I can envision us buying tickets to offbeat performances like the Poetry Brothel, trying foods neither of us can pronounce at new restaurants, and lounging in bed for hours on weekend mornings because nothing outside remotely measures up to the pleasures of spooning under the covers and talking until our voices are hoarse.
It scares me that these thoughts feel new. With Blake, I mostly reassured myself that I’d fall for him someday. If I’m having these types of thoughts about Raj on the night of our first date, that means my interest in him is truly greater than just saving Brooklyn Jewels. It means my feelings for him are real.
“Everything okay?” Raj asks. “You got kind of quiet.”
“Yeah!” I blurt out. “Yeah. Do you want to stay over? Because you could. If you wanted to.”
“I do, yeah,” he says.
I get up gingerly so my hair doesn’t catch under his arm and slide out of bed to blow out the candle and turn off the lights. Moving around gives me something to do rather than dwelling on how I feel. I slip back into bed. I should just relax, or god forbid, sleep. But I can’t.
“So, here’s the thing,” I say a minute later, flipping onto my stomach and propping myself on my elbows so I can look directly at him. It’s easier to be vulnerable in the dark. “I like you. Like, a lot.”
Even in the darkness, I can see him smile. “I mean, I’d hope so,” he retorts.
“I know this is all, um . . . nontraditional?” I continue. “Showing up at the bar after not talking for a while, and then you offering to fake-marry me, and then me seducing you.”
“You can seduce me literally anytime,” he says.
“Oh, I plan on it. But I just need you to know that I really care about you. This isn’t just about you helping me out. I’m not expecting anything. I know that marriage, even if it’s fake, is enormously meaningful. I just . . . I just hope you understand that my feelings for you are very real.”
“I don’t think you could fake this if you tried,” he says.
I feel a rush of relief. “Good, I’m glad you feel that way.”
“I know I offered to show up for you at the wedding earlier, but can I . . . sleep on it?” Raj asks tentatively. “I mean, I’m not ruling it out, but today has been a lot. I just want to think it through.”
I hate that my heart sinks. I look down and pretend to study my cuticles so he can’t see the disappointment on my face.
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” I say. “That’s smart.”
“I know you don’t have unlimited time, but I’ll make a decision soon, I promise. Soon.”
“Thanks,” I say, exhaling.
I lie flat on my back next to him, but I feel too exposed. So I roll away from him, onto my side, where he can’t see how crushed and hopeless I feel.
• Chapter 28 •
According to a wedding-planning magazine I glanced at once at a bridal salon when Sophie was trying on dresses, there’s a frighteningly long checklist of things to do the week before you tie the knot. If you don’t have a wedding planner, which, of course, I do not—the last thing I need is to pay a stranger to ask nosy questions about who, exactly, the groom is—the tasks all fall to the bride: performing a complicated twelve-step skincare routine, calling vendors to confirm call times, and writing out a day-of itinerary to give to my photographer (an Instagram influencer’s Instagram boyfriend who offered me a deal if I offered him a discount on an engagement ring). There’s just one problem—it’s difficult to get through these tasks with any gusto if you’re not entirely sure the wedding will actually take place.
But it’s not like I have anything else to do. Raj left my apartment quietly and quickly this morning. Running through my usual set of tasks at Brooklyn Jewels feels useless, given that there might not be a Brooklyn Jewels by next month. At least not in the way I’d want it to exist. I can’t stand the uncertainties creeping up from every side. I have to do something. So I put on my most no-nonsense jeans and the first top I grab from my dresser dra
wer and I head downstairs to get some goddamn work done.
Jess is already at the shop when I walk in the door.
“Morning,” she says, glancing up from her work organizing a case of jewels.
“Morning,” I reply.
The sight of Jess triggers an uncomfortable realization. There’s a terrible conversation that I need to have with her, and I’ve put it off for as long as I possibly can.
“Do you actually have a minute to talk?” I ask.
She looks up from the velvet tray that she’s loading with necklaces. “Yeah, what’s up?”
I sigh and take the seat next to hers. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this, but our finances are in rough shape,” I say.
Her eyes go dead. “Oh,” she says heavily.
“As things currently stand, I can’t say for sure that we’ll be open past mid-November first,” I explain.
“But the holidays are the busiest sales season,” she protests. “You can’t close right before then.”
“This isn’t our choice, Jess,” I say, frustrated that she’d even assume we’d shut down the shop of our own volition. “Our rent is going up, and it costs an exorbitant amount of money to lease this space every month. I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, but you should at least know what’s going on in case you need to start looking for another job. The wedding will hopefully help our sales, but right now I’m not one hundred percent sure it’ll even happen.”
She looks at me with her big saucer eyes, and I get the nauseating sensation that I’ve just completely crushed her.
“I’m so sorry. I wish things were different,” I tell her.
She looks away. “Me, too,” she says.
Love at First Like Page 23