Expiration Dates: A Novel (9 page)

On Friday I go to Jake's apartment for dinner.

“I cook,” he said when he called Wednesday. “Not well, but enough. Would you like to come over for dinner?”

I put on my favorite AGOLDE jeans and a white sleeveless turtleneck that sits just below my naval. I tie up some strappy python heels I'll likely have to kick off after an hour, and grab a black clutch. I survey myself in the mirror. Not bad. My hair is a little straggled, and my face looks slightly pale. I swipe a bronzer brush across my cheeks, yank my top down a little closer to my jeans, grab a pair of gold hoops, and make my way out the door.

Jake lives in an apartment in a high-rise on Wilshire Corridor, which immediately strikes me as both hilarious and incongruent. For one, the median age of residents in Wilshire Corridor is probably around eighty-four. For another, it feels off-brand for Jake, what little I know of him. I pictured him in
a small complex in Culver City, with a shared garden. Wilshire Corridor is almost like living in New York.

An overanxious doorman greets me in a wide marbled lobby. “Miss? Can I help you?”

“I'm here to see Jake Green?”

He sends me up to the seventeenth floor, and when the elevator doors open I see Jake's head poking out of door 17F, trying to keep a dog at bay.

“This is Saber,” he says. “He's a little overly friendly.”

I crouch down to greet a bulldog mix who is excitedly shuffling behind Jake's legs. “Can I pet him?”

Jake nods, holding his collar. “He loves attention. But be prepared to be slobbered on.”

I pat Saber's head and he rears his chin up, greeting my hand.

“Oh, hi,” I say. “Hi. Hi.” I look up at Jake. “My dog doesn't really like human contact, this is so nice.”

Jake tugs on his collar. “Come on,” he says. “Inside.”

I follow them through the doorway, and then Jake holds out a toy to Saber, and donkey-carrots him to his bed. Once Saber is seated, Jake lets him have the toy. The dog immediately starts drooling all over the plastic cylinder.

“It's a peanut butter dispenser,” Jake says. “It keeps him occupied for hours.” He smiles at me then—a warm, welcoming smile.

“You look wonderful,” he says.

I feel myself blush. “Thank you.”

Jake is wearing a white-and-blue button-down and dark jeans. He's barefoot, and his shirt is untucked, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his freckled forearms. All at once I'm met with the intoxicating scent of butter and garlic.

“White or red?” Jake asks me.

“Red,” I say.

“You got it.”

His apartment is spacious, with a stunning view of LA. From this high up, you can see a good chunk of the city. There is a sectional couch by the wall, a television across from it, and, around the corner, a galley kitchen. Jake disappears there, and I follow him.

The kitchen looks brand-new—all stainless steel appliances, and a small, round table for four sits off to the left-hand side. I take a seat while Jake opens the wine.

“How long have you been here for?” I ask him.

“About a year,” he says. “No, maybe almost two, now.”

“I have to ask,” I say. “What made you end up in Wilshire Corridor?”

The cork comes out with a pop. “Whatever do you mean?” Jake says with a grin.

He picks up the bottle, and I hear the wine slosh against the glass.

“It's not exactly a youthful zip code.”

Jake laughs. “I'll claim ignorance on that front. Honestly, the building was having a great deal, and it was close to work. At the time, it's what mattered to me.”

“Pragmatic.”

He hands me the wine. I take a sip. Rich and full.

“It turns out I like it, though,” he says. “My neighbors bake all the time, they're always home to water my plants or feed Saber if I'm running late, and whenever someone dies, there's the Brisket Brigade.”

My eyes go wide, and I practically spit out my wine. “What do you know about the Brisket Brigade?”

My grandmother was fond of the phrase. She said in her later years, whenever a man's wife would die, women would show up in droves with brisket in the hopes of being his next wife. Whoever made the best brisket won his hand.

“Only my lived experience,” Jake says. “They always throw me the leftovers. You know kugel freezes very well.”

“Are you Jewish?” I ask him.

Jake smiles. “More now than I've ever been before.”

I feel a warmth spread out through my limbs, although if it's the wine or the revelation of—what? Familiarity? I cannot say. It was always important to my parents that I be with someone Jewish. Not because they are particularly religious people—they lived together for seven years before they got married, and the only time either one of my parents covers their heads is in the rain. But tradition is important to them.

“You never want to be a stranger in your own family,” my mother used to say.

Jake raises his glass to mine. “To Friday,” he says. We clink. “Here, I want you to see the view.”

The doors are sliders, and he opens them and then holds his arm out for me to step onto the terrace.

It's cool out, from way up here, the wind is blowing, and I hug my arms to my chest as I look out over the city.

“I used to think LA was just a place I saw in movies,” Jake says. “I thought it was devoid of any character—how could somewhere so beautiful also be interesting? It wasn't until I had been living here for a few years that I realized it's not all Technicolor. There's
a lot that makes this place artistic and cultural and relevant, I think.”

“It's all I know,” I tell him. “I've never lived anywhere else for more than a few months.”

But I do understand what he means. When I was growing up, LA was full of phonies, or at least that's how it often felt to me. A city of people who drove Ferraris and then went home to dilapidated apartments in Burbank. Everything was for show. But Los Angeles has changed, or maybe I've just grown up. I see now it's not one specific thing. There really is no unified narrative. Los Angeles is many things. Full of life and nature and a myriad of experiences, just like everywhere else. The thing that differentiates it, maybe, is the surplus of hope—the dreams both tightly held and scattered.

“In high school it definitely felt like you just had to be rich and thin to be important,” I say. “But I think that's changing. There's a really amazing art scene, downtown is having a renaissance.” I point eastward. “There's a lot to love about it here that doesn't include the weather or ‘the industry' or a plastic surgeon's office.”

Jake touches down to the railing beside me. “But the weather is also pretty great.”

We are silent for a moment—taking in the surrounding sounds, the low drum of traffic below, the feeling of the open-air breeze.

“This was the first place I lived in alone,” Jake says. “Or, the first place I picked on my own, I should say. I think that's part of what attracted me to the place. I never feel alone here. There's always something going on.” He jerks up from the railing. “Shit! Be right back.”

From the balcony I see him dash into the kitchen and open the oven. I turn back out toward the city.

When I was young I used to want to live in New York in a building just like this one. I wanted to be high in the sky, way above ordinary life. Somewhere I could get some perspective, where problems would seem small and petty and pocket-size. Somewhere untouchable.

The closest I ever got was that night in Stuart's apartment.

Jake returns. “Question for you,” he says. “You prefer rice to be hard and also gummy at the same time, right?”

I walk in toward him. “Let me see,” I say. “Rice happens to be my specialty.”

The rice gets salvaged, and Jake makes a truly impressive Moroccan chicken and Greek salad. It's all delicious. The tomatoes are ripe and juicy, and the chicken is crisped to perfection. Jake sets down a plate of olives, too, and we spit out their stone centers into a small ceramic bowl.

Afterward we leave the dishes piled high in the sink, refill our wineglasses, and take them back out onto the balcony. The city is lit now. The whole view plays out in a string of colored lights. Sparkling high-rises, the glittered snake of traffic. Palm trees dot the industrial horizon.

Jake turns to me, putting his wineglass down on the table below us. I feel the spark of energy between us, the same pull that was present at Pace nearly a week ago now. I get the feeling that he's taking it slow for a reason—that the more intentional this is, the sturdier. But I also feel impatient.

“Hey,” he says. He touches my elbow. “I want to kiss you.”

My fingers tighten around my wineglass.

“Is that OK?” he asks me.

I look at him. Even in the darkness I can tell his cheeks are rosy from the wine—not because of the color but because his whole face has a moonlike quality now. Round and lit.

“Do it,” I say.

He takes my wineglass out of my hand and sets it down next to his. I hear the clink of glass on glass.

Then he takes both my elbows in his palms. He runs his hands up to my shoulders, and then he leans his face closer—and kisses me. We are pretty much eye to eye at this height, especially because I still have on heels. His lips land softly on mine, and I feel that familiar hovering sensation, the millisecond of stillness before a fall.

And then his hand reaches tentatively for my waist. It's timid—no, it's seeking. It's asking:
Is this OK? Here? Now? Me?

He pulls back after a moment. His face is so honest I think I can see the words scrolled there before he says them.

“We should do this again,” he says. He's smiling. Even in the surrounding darkness, I can see it.

We're moving toward something softly—like a cat, whisper quiet. I want to call it graceful.

I nod. I reach back up for his face in answer.

Dating Hugo was like being on a Sizzler ride. It was thrilling and nauseating and often felt like I couldn't catch my breath, or see what was right in front of me. We were moving too fast.

We'd been dating for just under a month when he asked me if I wanted to go to Big Sur with him.

I was wary—of him, his past, and the paper—I knew our time was limited, and I could also see the strength of my feelings, how quickly they were growing. I wanted Hugo all the time. His presence, his attention, even his approval. I found myself often embellishing anecdotes from work I thought he would find charming, or doing research about topics he'd mentioned just to impress him. I wanted him to laugh, I wanted to be the person who made him open his mouth and say yes. With Hugo it felt a little like I'd won a prize—but one that I was always in danger of
losing. I wanted to keep him, which meant, I wanted to keep his attention. In those early, hazy days I would forget—for very long stretches of time—where this was all headed.

I had never been super attached in love. I'd experienced heartbreak only once, in college. We met our junior year, and were together for two years and two months. Long enough to fall in love. Long enough to think it might not matter. But of course, it did.

I boarded Murphy at Wagville, packed a bag, and Hugo picked me up in a black Ferrari for our weekend away.

“Seriously?” I asked when I saw him.

“I'm just trying it out,” he said. “Embarrassing?”

“Deeply.”

Hugo got out and came around to my side. He surveyed the car. “I agree.” Then he turned his attention to me. “Hi,” he said. “Damn, I missed you.”

Being with Hugo felt like having the sun shining down on you and you alone. When I was with him I felt wrapped in this vortex of warmth—like a greenhouse of flowers in full bloom. Everything was hot and bright and growing.

“Hi.”

He kissed me. Swooped down and planted one on my lips, and then my cheek, and then back on my lips. He squeezed me closer to him. It made me giggle. I giggled with Hugo. I could never remember giggling before. It felt moronic. It felt precious—like I was something to be held and tended.

“Ready?” he asked.

I handed him my overnight bag. He'd told me to pack light, and I had—now I saw why.

Hugo put my bag in the trunk of the car, which was in the hood—and tiny, about two feet by three. The bag just fit.

I climbed inside, and he closed the door for me, then got in himself.

He then gestured to the center console. Two takeaway coffee cups sat in their containers. “Yours is the one in front,” he said. “Decaf cappuccino, extra foam.”

I felt something inside my chest lift. “Yes.”

“The radio is your responsibility,” he said. “I have no taste in music.”

This I hadn't heard before. We were still getting to know each other. I loved discovering the details. Every single thing I learned about Hugo felt worthy of notation and study—there was no filler. He would lean his head closer to me when I touched the back of his neck. If you asked him a question, the response you normally got was “absolutely.” He would only wear V-neck shirts if they were in gray. He was meticulous about his hair. He never texted with emojis.

“What does that mean?” I said. “You have no taste or no interest?”

He glanced at me as he turned on the engine. “Astute. What's the difference?”

I thought about it. “Are you saying if you had interest you'd have taste?”

Hugo pulled onto the road. I saw the side of his face curl up. “My ego is not that big.”

I cleared my throat and clicked on the radio. “Yes, it is.”

The drive took us five hours flat. Hugo drove fast, pushing one hundred on the freeway. By the time we got to the coast I barely noticed as he flew around the turns.

“Look over my shoulder,” he said. “This is some of the most beautiful stretch of road in the world.”

The ocean crashed to the left below us, and the cliffs—increasingly more jagged—made me feel like we had crossed over into Ireland. Somewhere foreign and magical where it was always winter. About an hour in, my cell phone lost service. I held it out to him.

“Just you and me,” he said. “Any regrets?”

“You without a phone?” I said. “I cannot think of anything better.”

He reached across and squeezed my knee.

The Post Ranch Inn is a forty-room hotel built into the California coastline. We parked, and I got out, stretching my legs and hinging at the waist. I felt the blood rush back into my limbs.

Hugo unloaded the car as I looked around. The serene beauty of the place was physical—I could feel my body relaxing with every step I took. Even the air was different—it smelled like rain and pines and lavender. It felt pristine, too. It wasn't mixed with exhaust and chemicals. Nothing there felt contaminated.

We were shown to our room—a bungalow hanging over the ocean with its own private terrace—complete with lounge chairs and a bubbling hot tub. The interior looked like a chic, woodsy cabin—all cherrywood and exposed beams with a steel fireplace, already lit.

“This is heaven,” I said.

Behind me I heard Hugo thank our bellhop, and then the close of the door.

“I'm glad you like it. It's one of my favorite places in the world.”

I turned around to see Hugo lifting champagne out of an ice bucket. I heard the cork pop. I untied my sweater from around my waist and slipped it over my head.

“Here we go.” Hugo came outside carrying two glasses. I took one out of his hands. We clinked. I took a sip. It was icy and sweet—delicious.

“It's crazy to think this is just five hours away,” I said.

Hugo smiled. “It's a different universe, right?”

“Let's stay here.”

Hugo leaned over and kissed my shoulder. I felt his teeth on my sweater. “Now,” he said. “I have to show you around.”

“The hotel?”

Hugo took the glass out of my hand and placed it down on the ledge of the hot tub. “Our room.”

He took my hand and led me back inside.

Part of the excitement and allure of this trip was simple: we hadn't had sex yet.

We'd fooled around, heavily made out—I'd even spent the night. But sex hadn't happened yet. Part of it was that we hadn't seen each other that frequently—Hugo was always traveling, and work for me was particularly time intensive—and part of it was that the previous week, when all systems were a go, I got my period. Fine for down-the-road sex, but first time felt aggressive.

“This is the sitting room, complete with two seventies-inspired
couches.” Hugo maneuvered me by the maroon loungers, and the glass and chrome coffee table between them.

“Very groovy.”

“This is our breakfast nook.”

Two wooden chairs sat beside a small table in the corner that had a basket on it filled with fruits and nuts and what looked to be some kind of dessert bread.

“And this is—I'm blanking on what you call it…” Hugo turned to me with a deadly grin, pointing to the bed.

“The thing for sleeping?”

He slipped an arm around my waist, and leaned his mouth down to my neck. “Hell no.”

I reached up to meet him, and he planted a kiss right below my ear. I felt myself go gelatinous in his arms. I sat down on the bed, and then scooted back, pulling him with me.

I wanted to have sex with Hugo, so much so that I felt like I had been driving it these past few weeks. But I was also scared about what it might do to us. I was in deeper than I should have been; I could feel it. And I was angry at myself for it, too. If I were my friend, I'd be telling me that men like this don't change, that he was momentarily infatuated with me and that it would fade, just like all the others had. That whatever was between us would not prove to be special.

I didn't need a friend, I had a paper saying it for me.

The problem was, my body refused to believe it.

“This is all I could think about on the drive up here,” Hugo said. “It's all I've been thinking about for weeks.”

My mind flashed, briefly, on that acting class parking lot. Cassandra at the door. Was it possible that the only reason Hugo
was still interested in me was that we hadn't yet had sex? And that once we did, the spell would be broken? I thought about Stuart, all those years ago.

He dug his fingers into the small of my back and I exhaled out against him. Who could care.

Hugo moved his mouth from my neck to my collarbone. He dipped his lips into the space there, threading his tongue along the bone. I swallowed.

“Here, sit up,” he said.

I did, and he reached down to the hem of my sweater. I helped him take it off, the shirt underneath came with it.

I had worn one of my best bras—a hot-pink lace affair with a middle clasp, but Hugo didn't even seem to notice. His fingers trailed lightly down my chest then, hovering at the spot right over my left breast. His fingers were cold, I shimmied away from him.

“What's wrong?” he asked. “What is that?”

I shook my head. “Nothing, just cold.”

Hugo lifted the duvet from where it was tucked into the sides of the bed and held it up. While I got inside, he took his shirt and jeans off.

The blankets were crisp and cool, and I could feel the warmth of my skin against them. Hugo climbed in beside me and then took my body into his arms. “You're freezing,” he said.

I could feel the goose bumps prick up like needles.

He started running his hands down my arms. First gently, and then more firmly. I turned so my chest was pressed up against his—skin on skin on skin. I could feel his breathe on my neck. He was warm—not just warm, hot. I moved myself even closer to him. He felt like a heat lamp. I wanted to be underneath him. No,
more than that. I wanted him to take off his skin, and I wanted to breathe beneath it, that's how close I wanted to be.

He wrapped his hands tightly around my back.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much.”

I pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were open—big pools of liquid gold. I felt like if I fell into them, I'd be trapped in lava.

I reached my fingertips up and touched his cheeks. And then I leaned my face up and kissed him. His lips were cool and soft and buttery. Hugo pulled me back and looked at me.

“You're really special to me,” he said. He traced a hand over my cheek. “Really special.”

I wanted to believe it. I wanted so much to believe it. Because it felt so good being there with him, right up against him, that close.

But I also knew I shouldn't.
Three months
. I saw the number in my head, like a serpent.

“I bet you tell everyone that,” I said.

He smiled a slow, languid smile. “Not even close.”