Roomies

  Seriously. What the fuck, Brian.

  I throw a frozen dinner in my microwave and pace the ten-foot length of my living room, back and forth.

  “What an asshole,” I growl.

  The microwave dings, but I ignore it, instead going to the fridge to grab a beer. I snap the top open and drink half of it before slamming the can down on the counter.

  For the life of me, I can’t get this afternoon out of my head.

  I’d excused myself from the meeting once they finally broke for coffee, leaving them to go over the list of possible replacements on their own. Even without eavesdropping in the hallway, I knew they were all lukewarm on the alternatives, no matter how talented they may be. Seth is a douchebag, but his charisma is undisputed, and he and Luis seemed to move in perfect unison when they performed together. We need someone like that for Ramón Martín—whose voice is like rich honey—and given the fluency of his playing, I know that person is Calvin.

  I pick up the beer again, finishing it and crumpling the can in my left hand. Returning to the fridge, I grab another, making a mental list of the present circumstances.

  1. Ramón starts rehearsing in two weeks.

  2. Lisa isn’t even pushing to claim the lead violinist chair; in fact, she offered some names to Robert.

  3. Robert brought Calvin in after listening to him play at the station for a mere three minutes. My uncle has a musical ear that goes beyond anything I’ve ever witnessed—and I spent a good part of my childhood in the symphony hall, watching him.

  4. Without a doubt, we need Calvin.

  How could Brian think I would do something like this?

  I close my eyes, wondering at the ball of heat in my chest.

  Would I?

  Sleep doesn’t come easily.

  By midnight I’m back to pacing the apartment.

  By one I’m on my phone, frantically researching visa requirements and examples of immigration leniency. There aren’t many.

  By two my battery is almost dead. I decide I’m worrying over something completely beyond my control and spend the next hour going through my clothes and getting rid of things I haven’t worn in years.

  By three thirty I’m on my bedroom floor, tethered to my phone again, which is itself tethered to the outlet. Scouring theater gossip sites, I look for productions that have lost two major leads at once, hoping I’ll identify a slew of shows that came back bigger and better than ever.

  Spoiler alert: I don’t.

  By the time the sun starts to brighten the sky, and after zero hours of sleep, I feel a little crazy, but Brian’s suggestion feels less so.

  Empty hangers swing on the rod overhead as I stare at my closet ceiling. Exhausted and apparently beyond rational thought, I decide to make another list—this time of the pros and cons of marrying Calvin. This activity could probably be taken more seriously if I weren’t also wearing an old bridesmaid dress and a pair of knockoff Valentino flip-flops from Chinatown last summer.

  “Pro: he’s gorgeous.” I sit up, searching a discarded handbag for something to write on. “Let’s start with that.”

  The back of an envelope works, and I add the first item to the Pro column.

  Con:

  I don’t know him.

  Con:

  This idea is varying shades of illegal.

  Oof. That’s a big one. I swiftly move back to the pros.

  Pro:

  Robert really wants Calvin, even if he’d never admit it.

  Pro:

  I adore Robert more than life itself.

  Pro:

  Calvin was made for this role. I know it.

  Pro:

  Robert has done more for me than any single person. This could be my chance to repay him. When will I ever have this opportunity again?

  Pro:

  I can’t figure out another way to make this work.

  There’s something else inside me, urging me forward. Why on earth does it feel like I nearly want to leap without looking? I look over the list, knowing what’s missing. Even in my head, my voice is a shameful whisper.

  Pro:

  I sort of really want to do it.

  Con:

  But would I feel pathetic? Having had a crush on him all this time?

  I shouldn’t rely on my own infatuated brain here; I need to bring in reinforcements. I can’t call Robert and I definitely can’t call Jeff. He’d skin me alive for even suggesting it. I won’t even bother to call Lulu, because she already wants me to pole dance down at Private Eyes so that I can give her stories to help her empathize and relate in various auditions. Without even asking, I know I can put her in the Fuck Yeah, Marry Him column.

  So I do what I always do in this situation: when I can’t talk to Robert, I call my brother.

  Older than me by nineteen months, Davis is a bank teller in Milwaukee by day, and a rugby fanatic by all other hours. Where Robert and Jeff are refinement and culture, Davis is mud and beer and cheese sticks. It would never occur to him to grow a beard to be trendy; he grew one in college, years before the hipsters did, purely because he was lazy.

  I give him the courtesy of waiting a couple of hours, so I’m nearly frantic by the time I get him on the line at eight. “Did I wake you up?”

  “Holls, most of us don’t start work at three in the afternoon.”

  “Okay, good.” I begin pacing my tiny kitchen. “I need your solid advice. Robert brought the busker in yesterday to play—”

  “Jack?” Davis asks, and then snaps a bite of something crunchy. I’m assuming less apple-slices-for-breakfast and more Cheeto.

  “His name is Calvin.”

  “Who is Calvin?”

  “The busker.”

  “A different busker than Jack?”

  “Oh my God, Davis!”

  “What?”

  I close my eyes, leaning my head back on my couch. Something is lumpy beneath me, and I reach down, finding my vibrator. Nice. Perfect moment to feel the full power of my singlehood. I shove it under the other couch cushion.

  “Jack is Calvin,” I explain. “I never knew his name, remember? It turns out it’s Calvin.”

  “Oh, got it, got it.” A bag crinkles on the other end of the line. “So where did Robert want him to play?”

  I groan. “At the theater. Just listen, okay? I’m getting to all that.” Davis has this way of distractedly carrying on conversations while he watches TV or plays on his phone that makes me want to spend my precious money to fly to Milwaukee and just slap him. “So, Calvin is the busker. We’ve learned that he’s Irish. He went to Juilliard.” I wait—no response to this from Davis, so I continue. “Robert brought him in yesterday to play, and he’s amazing. Everyone wanted him to join the orchestra.”

  He mumbles, “Okay,” and then laughs at something on the television.

  I really need his full brain on this. Despite claiming to be a rugby brute, Davis is sharp as a blade. So I retaliate with force, using the nickname he despises. “Dave.”

  “Ew. Gross, Holland.”

  “Turn off The Bachelor. Listen to me.”

  “I’m watching last night’s John Oliver.”

  “But can you listen? Nasty Brian suggested I marry Calvin so he could join the show when Ramón Martín comes on.”

  The sound of the television disappears in the background, and Davis’s voice returns, stronger. “He what?”

  “Calvin isn’t here legally,” I explain, “and because it’s going to be really hard to get him a visa, Brian blurted out in a meeting that I could marry him, just for the run of the show.”

  “You cannot—”

  “Davis,” I say quietly, “just let me try to explain all sides, okay?”

  I wonder whether this is a huge mistake. Davis is my buddy and in all ways a laid-back bro, but inside that round torso is a heart that beats wildly for his family with a type of loyalty that seems rare these days. How can I admit that I don’t hate the prospect of marrying Calvin even a fraction as much as I shoul
d? I feel like I’m defending the idea of marrying a stranger for absolutely zero benefit to myself. At least in Green Card Andie MacDowell got the fucking greenhouse.

  “Robert said no,” I assure him. “He wouldn’t even entertain the idea.”

  “Good,” Davis cuts in, sharp.

  “But—I made a list, Davis, of the pros and con—”

  “Well, I mean, absolutely let’s consider it if you have a list.”

  “Will you shut up? I know it’s crazy—I do—but you haven’t heard Calvin play, and . . . it’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard. I’m not even musical and I’m obsessed. He would be so good for the production.”

  “Holland, are you really considering this? You like him that much?”

  Ughhhhhh.

  “I’m attracted to him,” I admit, “but it’s not like I know him. This isn’t about that.”

  “What is it, then? It’s not like you’re all that invested in Possessed. I always had the impression it was just a job for you.”

  I hesitate. “I want to do it for Robert. It feels like a chance for me to give back a little.”

  “Give back?” Davis repeats. “You work there. You don’t owe them your virginity.”

  This makes me laugh. “Right. Unless they have a time turner and can go back to 2008 and Eric Mordito’s basement, I think that ship has sailed.”

  It takes him a few seconds to compute and then, “Gross, Holls. Mordito? Eric and I shared a pottery wheel my sophomore year.”

  “It’s possible you’re missing the point,” I say. “The only reason I have a job is because of Robert. The show could fail without a new star. Robert’s invested so much, he could ruin his reputation if this tanks. I can’t let that happen.”

  After a few moments of silence, Davis asks, “Are you asking my blessing or my advice?”

  I close my eyes, tilting my face to the ceiling. “Both?”

  “Look, Hollsy,” he says, gentler now, “I get it. I know you and Robert are super close, and I know you feel guilty sometimes about working there and living in the apartment. But this seems extreme to me, really extreme.”

  It’s not until he’s said those words that I understand what really draws me to this. It’s unlike anything I would ever do. I am shit at taking risks; I’m bored to hell with my life already, and I’m only twenty-five. Maybe the reason I can’t write about fictional life is because I haven’t actually lived.

  “I think that’s why it’s appealing. It feels like a crazy thing to do, and I need a little more crazy.”

  “Well, this is it!” he says, laughing. “My advice, of course, is don’t do it.” Davis pauses. “But I feel like you’ve already decided, haven’t you?”

  I can’t even say it aloud.

  Am I insane?

  My older brother exhales slowly across the line. “Just make sure you’re safe, okay? Check him out and get an attack dog or something before you go bull-in-a-china-shop your life, woman.”

  “And—”

  “And don’t worry: I won’t tell Mom and Dad.”

  eight

  No one in the history of the New York City transit system has ever taken so long to descend a set of stairs. At least that’s the way it feels as I take them one by one, shoved side to side by the commuters rushing to get around me.

  As you might have guessed, I’m stalling. Have the ceilings always been this particular shade of gray? I didn’t know they were replacing the light bulbs in this station. How have I never noticed the texture in this paint—oh, that’s not paint.

  But then, like some preternatural tease, Calvin’s music rises up, beckoning.

  I reach the bottom landing and see him there, bent over his guitar, lost in the music. Every time I hear it, I become a bottle of carbonated water, lifted and shaken. Inside, everything grows too tight, as if pressurized.

  The chaos of the late-morning commute is a little like being in the middle of a giant ant farm, and people dart between us and on each side, swarms moving in every direction.

  He hasn’t seen me yet, and doesn’t look up as he transitions from one musical piece into another. I cross to stand in front of him, blurting the first words that come to mind. “Do you want to have lunch?”

  Even down here it sounds like I’ve shouted. My voice rises above the squealing cacophony of the trains.

  Calvin looks up, and his notes trail off before he gives the strings a final, dramatic strum. “Lovely Holland. How are ya?” I’m rewarded with a smile that sprouts from one corner and grows across his full mouth. “Sorry. What did you say?”

  I swallow, wishing I could reach up and wipe my gloved hand across my forehead. I’m sure I’m sweating. “I asked, do you want to have lunch?” I repeat, wondering a little if he’s messing with me.

  He hesitates, and his eyes dart around us before landing back on my face. “Lunch?”

  Someone, quick: Pass me a remote control. I am going to slam my hand on the rewind button.

  But instead, I nod. “Lunch. With me. Food. Middle of the day?”

  Oh, Holland.

  I imagine a horrified Lulu beside me. Her artfully thick brows rise. Her brown eyes roll. Imaginary Lulu drawls in that drawn-out way she has: “Jesus Christ, Appalland.” And imaginary me turns to her, growling, “You agreed with me about this, asshole.”

  Calvin’s laugh is this sweet but tentative thing, like he suspects I know about the visa but isn’t sure what my endgame is.

  “Sure.” He blinks up at me. “Now? I could eat.”

  By the time we reach the restaurant, even imaginary Lulu has abandoned me. When the hostess asks us the requisite “How many?” I react like this is my first adventure out with another person.

  “Two. Yes. Two of us. Me and him. Can we sit far away from everyone? I mean, have a little privacy or . . . ?”

  The hostess goes still with her hand floating just above the stack of menus.

  I feel the gentle weight of Calvin’s hand on my arm, and he clears his throat. “We’d like that booth in the corner, please.” He drops his voice so only I can hear: “The lady requested privacy, did she?”

  My face is on fire as we follow her to the table, sit down wordlessly, and bury our noses in our menus.

  I take one look at the monstrous list of options and decide on the gnocchi. I’d probably rather have the spanakopita, or a salad, but the image of me indelicately collapsing giant hunks of greasy lettuce into my mouth—or worse, getting strips of spinach stuck in my teeth while I’m trying to casually propose to a stranger—makes a hysterical laugh bubble up in my throat.

  It’s then that I’m hit with the full weight of what I’m about to do. If Calvin says yes, I’ll have to explain this somehow to my parents and the rest of my siblings . . .

  Or hide it indefinitely. Davis tells me every chance he gets that I’m in over my head in New York, that I should move home and do something with my degree. With my life. My parents always admonish him, and remind him that I am essentially the baby in the family and haven’t quite found my place in the world yet.

  I don’t think marrying a stranger is exactly how they meant for me to find it.

  The other bit of awareness is that if Calvin says yes . . . we’ll be married. Husband and wife. We’ll have to live together . . . proximity, nakedness, my fantasies about him expanding into something barely manageable.

  Calvin scratches his jaw, runs a finger thoughtfully up and down the skin just below his ear, up and down, up and down. I feel it on my own face, like we are neurologically linked somehow. I’ve been with my share of guys, of course, but my type has always been more the nerdy, clueless-about-appearance kind of guy. I’ve never dated someone in Calvin’s stratosphere. Think me: turtleneck sweaters and sensible shoes. Think him: artfully layered shirts and jeans that he’s poured into each morning. His casual sexiness is a leaf blower to the brush fire of my nerves.

  If only I’d been more sensible today. I scoot in my seat, adjusting my skirt. It’s this annoying cheap, sli
ppery fabric, and against the vinyl bench it keeps sliding up my thighs, exposing my ass. I wore it because this morning I thought it looked cute and eccentric with mustard tights and boots, but Calvin is giving the menu exponentially more consideration than he’s giving me. I suspect my efforts were wasted.

  “Spanakopita or chopped salad?” he muses.

  I laugh at how our brains ended up in the same place, but mine then veered into Eating Neatly territory. Guys just . . . never do that.

  “I’m getting the gnocchi,” I say.

  Finally, he looks up at me and smiles. “That looks good, too.”

  We put in our orders, make small talk about the weather, and tourists, and our favorite part of Possessed, until a meaningful silence falls . . . and there’s nothing else to do but dive right in.

  I adjust my napkin on my lap. “I’m sure you think it’s weird that I asked you to lunch.”

  “Not weird.” He shrugs. “Nice. Unexpected.”

  “The music was amazing the other day. At the theater.”

  It’s almost like something warms from inside him when I say this. “Thanks. I know this sounds trite, but what a bloody honor to be called in. To be offered that gig.” He pauses, dipping his straw in and out of his water distractingly. “I assume you heard why I had to turn it down.”

  I nod, and for the next two breaths, he looks devastated. But then his posture loosens again, and his smile is back.

  “It’s . . . sort of why I wanted to see you today,” I say. The bite of bread I’ve eaten settles into an uncomfortable glob in my stomach. “So. Calvin.”

  His eyes sparkle. “So. Holland.”

  Our food arrives and breaks the tension. Calvin bends, stabbing a bite of lettuce and neatly maneuvering it into his mouth. Teeth and chin: spotless. He looks up at me expectantly. “You were saying?”

  I clear my throat. “Robert was so impressed by you.”

  He blushes, chewing and swallowing. “Yeah?”