Lost in Love (10 page)

“There is one thing I want to know,” I say.

“Anything.”

“How did you pull off spending the whole weekend with me?”

“My wife was away for the weekend. I might have talked her into visiting her mom. She'd been talking about visiting her for a while. She knew things between us weren't good. They hadn't been good for a long time. She didn't need much convincing to leave.”

My wife.

Not me. Someone else.

I remember the huge fireworks non-coincidence. I
thought it was a sign that the Universe had brought us together at the exact right time.

Then I remember that I asked Darcy and Rosanna if Austin could stay at our place for the weekend the same night we watched
Unfaithful
. There was no way for me to know that was a huge non-coincidence at the time. Huge. A glaring sign right in front of my face and I didn't even see it.

“There's one more thing I want to know,” I say.

“You can ask me anything. No more secrets, I swear. I'm going to be one hundred percent honest with you from now on.”

“Honesty doesn't have percentages.”

Austin runs his hand through his hair, smiling ruefully. “I realize that now. I thought I was saving you at the time. Protecting you. I thought as long as we didn't have sex, it wasn't really an affair. But an emotional affair can be much more serious than a physical one. What we have . . . this is the kind of love people hope to find. Some people search their whole lives for what we have and never find it.”

“Did you tell your wife that? Did you tell her I'm the love of your life?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I've already hurt her enough. But I will tell her. I just want to give it some time.”

“I thought you wanted to be one hundred percent honest?”

“Do you want me to tell her now? Or can it wait until she's not going to be glued to the floor crying, like she was when I first told her about you?”

I need her to know that I'm not some random person who destroyed her marriage. I need her to know I didn't know.

“She knows I didn't know you were married, right?”

Austin nods. “I told her.”

“And that if I knew you were married, there's no way I would have been with you, right?”

“I don't remember if I used those exact words, but I'm sure she knows.”

Not good enough. His wife deserves to know the truth.

Wait. What am I even talking about? I can't be with him anyway. But she still needs to know the truth. Without percentages.

“Let me know when you've told her everything,” I say.

“And then you'll come back to me?”

I don't bother to answer him. I just close the door.

THERE'S THIS APARTMENT AROUND THE
corner from our place that is so freaking beautiful I can't even. It always gives me a rush when I look in the window. Every time I pass by, I have to stop and stare in the enormous picture window as if the glass has hypnotic powers. My attraction is not just about the high-end pieces like the cow-print Eames sofa or the Bang & Olufsen floor speakers. There's something about the apartment that just gets me. I could totally picture myself living there. I'd have to replace the cow-print sofa with a zebra-print, but still. Everything down to the last detail—the big arc lamp swooping over the sofa, the color-block area rug, the Paul Klee print—are things I would have selected for my own place. The living room looks so cozy at night with the warm glow of the lamplight and candles lit on the
coffee table and fresh flowers in a blown-glass vase. Darcy Stewart is not a homebody, but that home could be mine.

Standing at the gate in front of the picture window in the bright morning sunlight, separated from the building by an enclosed area with perfectly landscaped plants and potted flowers, I envision myself on the other side of the glass. How cool would it be to live there? You can tell the apartment goes all the way back. It probably opens into a back garden.

What about the man on the other side of the glass? I wonder what he's like. I've never seen anyone inside, but a man obviously lives here. The only thing that saved his apartment from looking like a bachelor pad was the expensive interior designer he clearly hired. How old is he? Where does he work? Is he in a relationship? He could be like me. A free agent who got sucked back into the past.

I've walked around with Sadie a few times at night. She's always looking in people's windows and pointing out beautiful things in their apartments. I get why she's always so mesmerized. Stopping to look into this apartment the way Sadie does has become a thing. The hypnotic powers of this place force me to be still and enjoy the Now. I only stop for a minute or two. But with the frenetic activity of New York City incessantly vibrating around me, it feels like much longer. I love being able to control time this way. To have the power to stretch one minute into five, five into ten. The power to choose how I want to spend
each of those minutes, adding up to days and weeks and months, small units of time building up to become my entire life. That's how powerful the Now is. It defines you every second, whether you are aware of it or not.

You know those days when everything clicks perfectly into place? Today has been one of those days. Like ribbons from every thread of my life swirling together in a Technicolor starburst of happiness. After my voyeuristic apartment therapy, I have a really good Social Foundations class where the professor is firing on all cylinders, sparking our interest in that way you always hope a class will. Revved up on intellectual stimulation, I treat myself to some shopping before my next class. There's a cute retro fit-and-flare dress at a boutique near campus that I must possess. I go in to try it on. The dress clings to my curves in all the right places. We were made for each other. And we all know you can't fight destiny.

I stroll back to campus with my glossy boutique bag. There's something about carrying an upscale store bag around downtown Manhattan that makes me happy. I smile at everyone I pass. Some people smile back.

My next class is Communications. It only meets once a week for three hours. We get a twenty-minute break in the middle. People usually grab a snack or coffee or just sit outside during the break. I usually sit outside with a cluster of people from class. But today I break away to meet up with Logan. He's waiting for me at Washington Square
Park, sitting on the edge of the fountain. My nerves tingle as I glance around for Jude's crowd, but I don't see him performing anywhere. I wonder if he was out here earlier this morning or if he'll be starting soon. Or maybe he's working on his start-up company. It feels weird not knowing even the simplest things about his life anymore.

I sneak up behind Logan and put my hands over his eyes.

“Guess who?” I ask.

“The sexiest girl in New York?”

“Good guess.” I sit down next to Logan. I remember sitting in almost this same place at the fountain a few weeks ago, hostile over the boy drama I left behind. Now I'm right here next to the boy who caused that drama. The boy I never thought I'd see again for the rest of my life.

“How's your day going?” he asks.

“Perfectly. What about yours?”

“Just got better.” Logan kisses me. He puts his arms around me and kisses me harder. That's another thing I love about New York. You can totally make out in the street or wherever and no one cares.

“I wish I didn't have to go back to class,” I say when we stop kissing. “We could go to your place.”

“Tempting. But I have a job interview in half an hour.”

“Where?”

“This bike shop on Charles Street.”

Logan has been looking for a job, but he's only had two
other interviews. One place didn't work out. The other place did, but Logan said he wasn't feeling it. This bike shop sounds more like his speed. He was working at an electrical repair shop back in Santa Monica and living in a beat-up condo near the beach. He didn't love the work. It was one of those jobs you do to get by. But that's how Logan rolls.

Logan splays his hands behind him, leaning back in the afternoon sun. His hair falls over his face as he turns to me with those big dark smoldering eyes. “You don't have to go back to class if you don't want to,” he says.

I want to tell him about my decision to go into public relations. How I was checking out the course schedule for fall and found some cool classes I could take. I found out that my major would be Media, Culture, and Communication, which even sounds cool. Except that's not who we are. Logan has no interest in college and he probably never will. We just don't talk about things like career goals and future plans that would limit us to a singular path. We live in the Now. Later will work itself out.

But maybe the Now is more complex. Choosing how to spend the minutes that add up to the hours and days and weeks of my life might be more powerful than I realize.

“Yeah, well, I want my diploma, so . . .” I stand and stretch. “I kind of do have to take this class.”

Logan gets up and wraps his arms around me. “When did you get so responsible?” he asks.

“When did you get so romantic?”

“I've always been romantic.”

“Not like this. Not like crossing the country to win me back or re-creating our first three dates. You've taken things to a whole new level.”

“There's more tricks up my sleeve where those came from.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Come over tonight and I'll show you.”

“I'm already there. What time?”

“Around ten?”

“What are you doing before?”

“Happy hour with the boys.”

“You better be ready for me.”

“Bring it, sexy.”

We kiss for a long time in the summer heat. Then I break away and rush back to class.

That night at my place, I can still feel Logan's lips on mine. Sprawled on the couch after the pasta dinner Sadie made, watching Rosanna do the dishes, I'm anticipating what we'll do tonight. I wasn't exaggerating when I said Logan better be ready for me.

A crash of glass breaking against the kitchen floor startles me out of my lust haze.

“Dammit,” Rosanna says. She bends down behind the breakfast bar.

I go over to help her. Pieces of broken glass are everywhere.

“Be careful,” I say. I rummage under the sink for a
dustpan. There's no dustpan here. Where else would people keep a dustpan? Do we even have a dustpan?

“Could you give me a hand?” Rosanna huffs. There's been this cloud of stank attitude over her since she got home. I don't know what her deal is, but throwing a tizzy fit in my direction is not the best way to go.

“I'm trying,” I say. “Do we have a dustpan?”

Rosanna springs up off the floor, exasperated. “How can you not know if we have a dustpan?”

“Um, because if we do, I haven't used it yet?”

Rosanna pounds over to the little utility closet outside the bathroom. She whips out a dustpan and slams the door.

“Yeah,” she says, bending down to sweep up the glass. “We have a dustpan.” The way she says it sounds like an accusation. Like I'm supposed to know everything everyone has and where it is.

“What's with you? You've been hissy ever since you got home.”

“I'm not having the best day.”

“So you're taking it out on me? I'm trying to help you.”

“By lying on the couch while I do the dishes? How is that helping?”

“You offered to do them.”

“And you couldn't offer to help?”

“You didn't say you needed help.”

“I don't!”

“Then why are you mad at me?”

Rosanna sweeps up the last shards of glass. Then she brushes the glass into the garbage can and puts the dustpan away. She comes back to the kitchen, turning the water on to wash the rest of the dishes. I'm still waiting for her to answer me.

“Forget it,” she says. Rosanna stares down at the colander she's washing. She shakes her head.

“Is this about D?” I ask. “Did something happen?”

“Other than Shayla?”

“Forget her. D is obviously crazy about you. She's not worth thinking about.”

“How can I not think about her? She's a problem.”

“Situations only become problems if we let them.”

“Says the girl with no problems,” Rosanna mutters, turning the water off.

“Oh, so that's why you're mad at me. What you said last night about how I get whatever I want. That everything comes so easily to me. Do you really believe all that?”

“Isn't it true?”

“Of course not.” How can Rosanna think I'm so shallow?

We didn't get off to the best start the day we met. That was my fault. But I thought I fixed things between us. I took her out to dinner, bought her those new clothes and accessories. I've been supportive of the whole Shayla situation. We've been getting along really well. Or so I thought.

Have I been wrong this whole time?

I'M OVER THE WAY DARCY
acts like she can do whatever she wants and the rest of us will take care of everything.

First she just sat on the couch while I started doing the dishes. Would it have killed her to offer to help? I didn't want to be doing the dishes any more than she did. But there I was, doing her dishes while she stretched out like a show cat whose owner caters to its every desire. Then I dropped a glass. It broke into a million pieces on the tile floor. Darcy reluctantly hauled herself off the couch, clueless about where we keep the dustpan. Maybe she'd know if she did any cleaning. But Sadie and I do all the cleaning for her.

So yeah. I'm being a bitch. I do not like myself right now. Where's the map that shows how to get to the shiny
new version of myself I'm supposed to be? Darcy wanted to know what's wrong. There was no way I could begin to explain without bursting into tears. I'm irritated that D is spending time with Shayla. I'm irritated that Addison keeps ignoring my calls. I'm irritated that Frank isn't doing anything about Momo. I'm irritated that my friends and family are so far away. And I'm irritated that financial anxiety is my new best friend.

“Here.” Darcy nudges herself next to me at the sink. “Let me help you.”

“Do you even know how to wash a dish?” Wow. Now I'm just being unnecessarily bitchy. Crossing the line bitchy. But the words are out there before I can stop myself from saying them.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You never wash your dishes. You always leave them in the sink.”

“That's not true. I washed my glass out the other day.”

“Did you? Or did you leave it in the sink filled with water?”

“There was dish detergent in it. It was soaking.”

“You don't even rinse your plates and utensils when you leave them in the sink. You leave them there with bits of food stuck all over. Do you know how annoying it is to scrub off dried food?”

“That's not all me. I hardly ever eat here.”

“Sadie washes her dishes when she's done. Either that
or she rinses them off and washes them later. And I always wash everything right away.”

“Well, not everyone always has time to wash their dishes right away,” Darcy protests.

“How much time does it take to put your stuff in your room?”

“What stuff?”

“Seriously? Clothes, shoes, books, bags—your stuff is everywhere.”

“All of our stuff is everywhere. It's called three people living in the same apartment.”

“Two of those people put their stuff away in their rooms. Look around.” I gesture over the breakfast bar to the living room. A jumble of Darcy's shoes are piled by the couch. Mugs and glasses that she used are scattered on every available surface. Part of what might be a top or a skirt is peeking out from behind a couch cushion. All of it is Darcy's.

“Last time I checked, I wasn't living at home with my parents anymore.”

“That's not an excuse to trash our apartment.” Darcy has no idea how hard it is to keep a three-bedroom apartment clean. How would she know? She grew up with cleaning ladies to pick up after her.

“Okay.” Darcy puts a hand up like
stop right there
. “This? Is not trashed. This is the cleanest apartment ever.”

Yeah. Because I do almost all the work. I'll bet she
doesn't even know the difference between a sponge and a scouring pad.

“Would it make you feel better if I put my things away?” Darcy pouts at me as if this is all a game. Does nothing faze her?

“That would be a start.”

“Seriously?” Darcy goes into the living room and starts gathering up the mugs. “What else is wrong?” She fumbles one of the mugs, almost dropping it.

I need to get a grip. I am out of control. Fortunately Darcy is tolerating my venting. If I'm not careful, I'll end up with an enemy for a roommate.
Simmer down, Rosanna. Remember who you want to be.

“Nothing,” I say. “Sorry I'm being such a bitch.”

“No, it's okay. I want to know what's bothering you. Get it all out, girl!”

“You really want to know?”

Darcy drops the mugs into the sink. “Lay it on me.”

“Well . . . you know how I divided our medicine cabinet into shelves for each of us?” The divisions were necessary. Darcy's makeup and eyelash curler and moisturizer kept migrating over to my area. I accidentally took some of her Tylenol before I realized it wasn't my bottle. Of course I replaced them. But that's not the point. The point is that everyone should be entitled to a dedicated area of bathroom space in a shared medicine cabinet. So I divided our
sections into areas by shelves: Darcy got the bottom shelf, Sadie was the middle, and I took the top shelf. But a mere two days later, Darcy's lip gloss and tweezers were tossed on top of my eye shadow. The chaos erupted from there.

“Yeah?” Darcy prods.

“That lasted two days.”

“Did it?”

“The medicine cabinet is completely destroyed.”

“Okay, I don't think we can classify a medicine cabinet as ‘completely destroyed' just because some things are out of place.”

“It's not some things. It's everything.”

“Are your things still on your shelf?”

“Buried under your things. And if you keep putting your stuff on my shelf, I won't be able to fit all of my stuff there anymore.”

She leans against the counter, pouting at me again.

“You wanted to know,” I say defensively. I start washing her mugs. If I don't wash them, they will sit here forever.

“You do realize it's just a medicine cabinet. It's just stuff. What's the big deal if some of that stuff is out of place?”

I shake my head, rinsing the first mug. She just doesn't get it.

“What else?” Darcy asks.

“You never take your shoes off when you come home.”

“So?”

“So your shoes track dirt into the apartment.”

“That's what the floor is for.”

“You're saying you don't care if the floors get dirty because you keep coming in with your shoes on?”

“The floors are going to get dirty anyway. I don't think my shoes are tracking in that much dirt.”

“But how hard is it to take your shoes off when you come in?”

“It's not something I think about. When I come home, I'm either racing to get ready to go out again or I want to relax. Taking my shoes off the second I walk in the door wouldn't help me with either of those.”

“It takes two seconds.”

“So does cleaning the floor.”

Darcy's ignorance makes me bristle all over again. Is she really that out of it? Not that she would mop or vacuum or even sweep when she spilled something on the floor. The other day she spilled sugar on the kitchen floor and didn't even bother to attempt cleaning it up. She just left the sugar on the floor like she still had a cleaning lady to take care of it. She's probably never had to clean a floor in her life. But that's no excuse to be ignorant. Darcy is technically an adult. She should act like one.

“Actually,” I say, “cleaning the floor takes a while. This is a three-bedroom apartment.”

Darcy goes over to the couch. She yanks her skirt out from behind the cushion. I don't even want to know what her skirt is doing in the living room.

“I don't need this place to be spotless,” she says. “You're the one who's obsessing.”

“So I'm the one who should do all the cleaning since I'm the one who wants our home to be clean?”

“I said we should get a cleaning lady. But you guys didn't go for it.”

“But that doesn't mean you shouldn't help us.”

“I wanted to help by getting a cleaning lady!”

“Who we would all have to pay for! Some of us can't afford a cleaning lady!”

We stare at each other.

Like I said. She just doesn't get it. And no amount of explaining is going to change that.