If We Lived Here (11 page)

“Come on, babe, up we go.” Emma eased Nick, half-asleep, to his room and into bed. She planted a kiss on his forehead and checked the clock: 8:04 p.m. She had three hours before she’d have to rouse him awake with the questions, her very last round after a week of prescribed interrogations. Nick was already snoring when she tiptoed away.

Emma changed the channel from ESPN to FOX, which was airing
New Girl
. Jess was bantering with one of her attractive male roommates, a flirtation Emma suspected would last two seasons max before they finally got together and the show got dull; happy couples didn’t make good TV. At the commercial break, Emma logged into Seamless and, in an act of carnivorous rebellion, ordered herself a cheeseburger from Five Guys.

When Emma later went outside to dump the evidence of her meat eating, on a whim, she kept walking until she ended up in a pub. She perched herself on a barstool and ordered a Stella, then nursed it, fidgeting and watching the other patrons. Back before Emma had met Nick, she’d sometimes ventured out alone to bars. She’d hoped she might attract a different kind of guy from the fratty dudes who approached her when she was out with Annie or the hipsters she met while with Gen. And she’d been right, although the guys who’d sought her out solo tended to be married men in their forties—not Emma’s thing. Now she tried to be inconspicuous, as she watched a group of early-twenty-somethings chatting and flirting and flitting around one another like butterflies. She guessed this was the start of their night, and who knows where they’d end up in two hours. Emma knew exactly what she’d be doing: easing Nick awake to check on the progress of his healing.

She ordered another beer, then immediately regretted it. One of the girls from the group leaned over the bar, exposing serious cleavage as she waved down the bartender. The girl’s tube top seemed silly in this dive bar, but she did look fantastic. Emma herself had on a worn button-down; she tried to remember the last time she’d donned a tube top—years ago. She was starting to feel like a cross between a Peeping Tom and a parasite, creepy and pathetic for trying to suck some vicarious fun out of a group of strangers. She finished off her beer and slinked out.

At eleven on the dot, Emma jostled her boyfriend awake. She began with the usual suspects—“Who’s the President?” “What’s the date?”—which Nick aced. Emma wondered if he could spell a more challenging word backward and, giving in to her curiosity, channeled her best impression of a spelling bee host: “Please spell ‘paradigm’ backward. That’s ‘paradigm,’ noun, as in ‘You are proving to be a paradigm of recovery.’ ” Nick struggled, but eventually, with brow furrowed in concentration, he managed the word. Emma kissed him on the nose, delighted that he’d successfully performed the trick, like a circus animal. She dismissed what she imagined as Gen’s horrified reaction, not quite caring that she was being a little cruel. She improvised a couple more questions: “Do you love me?” (“Of course”), and “Are you happy being my boyfriend?” (“Yes, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”) Emma’s heart fluttered, and she felt a pang of what had been lying dormant since Nick’s fall in the woods—lust.

“Are you awake, baby?” she asked, rubbing Nick’s shoulders.

“Mmm,” he answered, unconvincingly. His breath was ripe, but the smell drew Emma in closer, until she was pressing her lips to his and then moving to his stubbly cheek.

She hesitated only briefly before pulling off Nick’s shirt, and then her own. As she drew her body into his, Nick moaned quietly, eyes shut. He was soon ready, and then Emma eased her hips over his, rocking herself against him, letting her shoulders relax and her head slip back. The shuddering release overtook her quickly, arriving like a treat she hadn’t known she’d been missing. She remained still, connected to Nick, delighting in the warm after-buzz coursing through her body. “I love you,” she said eventually, leaning her face close to Nick’s and easing his mouth open with her tongue.

“Mmm-hmm,” Nick murmured.

Emma realized this was the first sex they’d had since Nick’s fall. The last time they’d done it, they believed they’d be moving to that Prospect Heights pad—Emma had already been fantasizing about making love under those skylights and in the walk-in closets. She eased herself off Nick, who was already snoring, and lay supine next to him, focusing her gaze on a crack creeping across his ceiling. For a moment, she let herself wonder if it wasn’t just Nick’s injury that had caused them to lie chastely beside each other all week, neither one reaching out for the other. Sex had softened something inside of her, which was perhaps what let her recognize that another part of her was still seething at all that had happened, furious at Nick and the landlords of New York and the world at large. She tried to tamp down her rage, but quickly gave up. When a sleeping Nick draped an arm across her waist, Emma eased out from under it and got up. On her laptop she loaded up Craigslist.

Chapter
13

W
aking up, Nick felt heavy with the same film of fogginess he’d been feeling each morning since his fall—a hangover from the painkillers, he knew. But today he felt something else, too, a looseness, like his muscles were all at ease. It was a relief, this strange peace. Despite how he knew it looked to Emma (who wasn’t very subtle in letting her feelings be known), this past week hadn’t been a breezy break for him. Never before had he experienced this level of exhaustion. Peeling open his eyelids felt like lifting weights, and his limbs ached with a weariness that he imagined was a preview of old age. That coupled with the headaches, the waves of nausea, and the moments of confusion when he tried to remember what he’d just watched on TV or whom he’d just spoken to on the phone but came up with only a void that was lonely and cold and terrifying—all of this so-called healing had kept Nick suspended in a state of murky misery.

But now, that faint scent of apple shampoo and the rumple of sheets next to him, like an afterimage of his girlfriend—it both calmed and energized him. He had a vague memory of Emma’s presence in his bed, but she was long gone now, as she’d been every morning when he awoke this week. He sat up, and took notice of his nakedness. It didn’t surprise him exactly—with his recent blips of blackout, he was starting to accept odd occurrences as the norm. He pulled on boxers and dragged himself to the kitchen, where he saw a note on the counter:
Cereal in the cabinet, milk in the fridge. Love you, babe!
A swell of solace rose up from Nick’s general state of sludge.

Breakfast in hand, he slouched over to the couch and switched on his Nintendo GameCube. Nick always became briefly obsessive when he got a new game, and
Resident Evil 6
was no exception. The plot wasn’t as strong as previous chapters, and the constant switching of camera angles was pretty annoying, especially considering his throbbing head, but still Nick found himself sucked into this world so separate from his own. Dealing with a global bioterrorism crisis on-screen minimized all of Nick’s real problems—his slow recovery, the apartment predicament, and the tension between Emma and him. Plus, his character, Captain Chris Redfield, was hampered with serious cases of both alcoholism and amnesia, which made Nick feel better about his own recent drinking and memory lapses.

“Take that!” Nick shouted, pressing like mad at his controller. A strange beep sent his heart racing, and it took him a moment to realize it was coming not from the game but from his phone. He pressed Pause to read the text:
Found a DREAM apt, 2BR in Boerum Hill, not too $$$, going to C 2nite. xoxo.

Nick felt a wave of sick and reached for the sleeve of Saltines beside him. He munched and munched, indifferent to the crumbs raining down on him. The nausea didn’t pass, so he grabbed a ginger ale from the fridge, though he suspected that wouldn’t help, either. He was considering something he’d done earlier in the week: called his landlady to ask whether he might extend his lease. Nick knew the management company was planning to renovate, so they probably hadn’t yet rented it out to someone else. “Of course you can stay,” she’d exclaimed, delighted; Nick had always been a model tenant. He said he’d let her know.

But Nick hadn’t gotten back to her, nor had he mentioned this possibility to Emma. He’d meant to, but he couldn’t figure out quite how to say it. He knew it sounded stupid to suggest that his fall had been a sign. (He could hear Emma’s retort in his head: “You mean like a sign of your drunkenness? I agree.”) But he did wonder, had this injury been an obstacle put along his path for a reason, a signal that the move-in was a bad idea? Ever since the accident, Emma had been on edge, seemingly annoyed by everything Nick said or did. This was precisely what he feared about living together—that spending so much time in close proximity would make Emma rethink their relationship and then retreat. Rationally Nick knew he wasn’t always the heap of hurt that he’d been this past week; he also knew his self-esteem had taken a real hit by being stuck at home while the school year started up and bustled ahead without him. Nevertheless, he was worried.

Then again, Nick considered Emma’s note about breakfast, and the glimpse of vitality he’d felt this morning. Maybe everything would be fine. Maybe Emma
had
found them a dream home, where they would be happy. And so before he could change his mind, Nick typed,
Great, good luck! Love you!
But as he was about to press Send, his phone beeped again, another text from Emma:
BTW, Gen popping by with groceries.

Nick stared at the screen, transfixed, trying to consider this turn of events. It struck him not as wonderful or worrisome, but as merely unimaginable that Emma’s pretty, peppy friend would make a middle-of-the-day pop-in to his apartment. He couldn’t square the idea of that girl—all perfume and playfulness—in this space, which had started to feel like a black hole of headache and fatigue and unwashed dishes. Much of the time Genevieve annoyed Nick; reaching Emma at work required first going through Gen’s receptionist line, which meant humoring her penchant for sustained small talk. But if Nick were being totally honest with himself, “annoyed” would not exactly describe his feelings toward his girlfriend’s friend; “annoyed” was perhaps an easier way of characterizing something a little more complicated. In fact, on more than one occasion Nick had caught himself inventing a reason to call Emma during the day, looking forward to that initial chat with Genevieve. Gen listened, asked questions, and laughed at Nick’s not-quite-jokes that magically turned funny in her ears. Even if the attention was merely a result of her acting training (and Nick had considered that), it was a welcome change from Emma, who was often impatient, and who became distracted if she felt Nick’s conversational contributions weren’t interesting or important enough.

It occurred to Nick that he was wearing a stained T-shirt covered in crumbs, and that he hadn’t washed himself in days. He mustered up the energy to shower. It made him slightly resentful toward Emma, whose manner all week had implied that if he’d just put forth a little effort, he’d be less of a lump; he pictured her “I told you so” look, the raised eyebrow and twisted lip. Although, maybe she had a point; maybe that had been her ulterior motive for getting Gen to visit him. On a roll of productivity, Nick decided to clean the apartment, scrubbing and sweeping and even mopping. After an hour, and still no sign of Gen, a wave of weariness overtook him and he lay down for a nap.

 

Nick awoke to Genevieve’s wavy hair tickling his cheek. “Hello, sleepyhead, I come bearing sustenance.” She eased Nick up, and then gaped at his eyebrow. “Wow, that’s a nasty cut. Poor thing, you must really be having a rough time.”

Gen set him up in front of the TV with a blanket and slippers, and then bustled about the kitchen stocking the fridge with supplies. She droned on about who knows what, occasionally interrupting herself to ask if Nick needed some tea or another pillow. He didn’t need a thing, but he appreciated the asking. “I don’t know why Emma said it was a sty in here,” she said breezily; it made Nick bristle, even if he knew that up until an hour ago the description had been apt. “I brought Windex and a Swiffer, but it seems like you already enlisted another admiring fan to come clean.” She fixed Nick with her one-hundred-watt smile. “I clocked out for the afternoon, so I guess I’ll have to find some other way to be useful. How about food?” Gen presented him with a plate, a hummus wrap secured with a toothpick. Notably to Nick, she didn’t rib him about how it would taste better with some lamb, as Emma might’ve done, and for the first time in days Nick’s stomach growled for a real meal.

“Eat up.” Genevieve plopped down next to him on the couch. “But save me some. I had to work through lunch. This client’s mom’s phone died, and I was helping her make calls to her team of helpers—manicurist, waxer, therapist, and what was it?—”

“Um, acupuncturist?”

“Close—masseuse. God, I could use a massage, sitting in that terrible office chair all day.” Gen twisted her waist and performed stretches, and Nick felt himself tense up.

“Want a bite?” He handed her the sandwich.

Gen spoke while chewing: “Emma’s lucky to be with someone so health conscious. Every guy I date ends up being the beer-and-wings type, and I can’t help picturing them with big old bowling-ball bellies by the time they’re forty. Yuck. Not you—you’ll be as trim and cute as ever.” She patted Nick on the knee, and her smile was sympathetic but not pitying. Nick was grateful, since he knew his scar made him look gruesome. He felt cheered up overall, and considered that maybe this whole experience would turn out positive. Maybe it would help him appreciate all the small things—like having an appetite, what a luxury!—things he hadn’t even noticed before.

When Genevieve asked him what he was up for—“I’ll do anything you want,” she said, and he felt she really meant it—Nick sheepishly asked if she liked video games. He feared he was pushing his luck, and that the suggestion would prompt Gen to say that actually she had to go. And Nick was desperate for her to stay. He’d been cooped up in the apartment for so long, visited only by a mostly distracted and often annoyed Emma.

“Ah, so then you aren’t actually the perfect boyfriend,” Gen said, winking. She grabbed a controller. “What the hell? I’ll give it a try.”

The two of them set about their mission with focus, eyes intent on the split screen as they worked on evacuating their players from underground. Gen was a fast study, and after each triumph she made contact with Nick’s body—high-fiving him or rubbing his shoulder, though always gently, mindful of his wounds. After an hour, Nick felt more clearheaded than he had in a week.

And then it was happening: After all this time underground, his player was finally escaping into open air. Sweet victory! It was thrilling and amazing, and Nick stood up and cheered without reserve, pumping his fist. Apparently Genevieve also realized the significance of this accomplishment: She leaped up beside him, and then pulled Nick’s face in and kissed him on the lips.

Nick’s head buzzed. His mind emptied, and his thoughts were replaced with sensations: the lips that tasted of honey, the hair soft against his jaw, the skin scented with vanilla and soap. Sensory overload. Nick felt drugged. At some point he flashed on a memory or maybe a dream from the night before, his half-asleep body excited, Emma on top of him, repositioning his limbs this way and that like a rag doll. She’d seduced him out of sleep, his sick self so in need of rest. Was he angry at her? Maybe. Or maybe he just wanted Genevieve in that moment. Genevieve, that sexy French name that rolled off his tongue—his tongue that was now touching her tongue, which was exploring his mouth, so different from his girlfriend’s, so new and exhilarating and . . . He pulled her toward him on the couch.

 

Later, after he’d found his unsent text to Emma, the one that wished her luck and love, and then rushed to the toilet to upchuck a hummus sandwich, Nick forced himself to look back on the afternoon. He reassured himself that he hadn’t kissed Genevieve back, that he’d been the one to pull away. He told himself that they hadn’t gone any further, that he was sick and hadn’t been in his right mind, and that the incident had meant nothing, less than nothing. However, it was hard to reconcile this version of events with what else he remembered—Genevieve’s gasp, her jumbled apology, her reaching for her shirt and the fast retreat. Had Nick tried to convince her to stay? Surely not. Probably not.

And what had he been thinking later that day when Gen texted him an apology and plea to forget the whole thing, and when he responded
Forgotten,
but then on a whim decided to add,
Even your honey lips?
And why had he then kept up the conversation, even as both of them swore up and down to erase the event from their memories and never breathe a word of it to Emma? Why had he even flirted, shamelessly and with stupid innuendos and emojis? Nick felt disgusted with himself.

And so, whatever had actually happened, and whatever his role in it had been, Nick numbed it all away with the pain meds that were running low and that he probably no longer needed. That way, those last moments with Genevieve seemed to exist out of time, separate from anything real in his life. After all, since when was he home in the middle of a Monday hosting Emma’s friend for a visit? His mind continued along like this, denying and dismissing, so that he was still sitting slumped on the couch—having not even bothered to shower, possibly still smelling like Gen—when Emma swooped into the apartment that evening, face beaming. The sight stabbed at Nick’s heart.

“Babe, I found our home!” she squealed. “It’s huge and flooded with light, plus a two-minute walk to the train. I was lucky to see it first, since anyone would snatch this place up. There’s this old fireplace—not functional, of course, but it’s got the original detailing. There are a few cracks here and there, but nothing we can’t fix up.” Nick was working to keep up with Emma’s words, the flurry of excitement after such a slow, low stagnancy. “Anyway,” she said, “I filled out the application and paid the twenty-four-hour hold fee. Do you think you can manage to come see it with me tomorrow? No pressure, but this place is amazing.”

“Okay, sure, Em. It sounds wonderful.” Nick believed his words to be a variation on an apology. Emma was so happy, and if he’d blurted out a confession right then, she would’ve withered and collapsed. That’s what he told himself, anyway; it was a kindness to stay quiet. And seeing his girlfriend so thrilled and full of life, he was reminded of all that he loved about her, all that made her the person he really did want to share a home and a life with. Laden with shame, Nick pulled Emma into his arms.

“Hey, you showered,” she said happily, “and cleaned the apartment! I hope that means you’re feeling a bit better. Do you even know how much I love you?” Nick held her tighter, hiding his face in her hair.