Roomies (8 page)

“My older brother just graduated from there and he got a job so he’s staying in Chicago.” He nods excitedly. “I think being near him again could be cool.”

“That’s awesome,” I say, wishing for a second that I were also moving toward a sibling and not an estranged parent.

He turns and looks at me a little bit like he’s afraid to say what he’s going to say; then he asks, “Do you want a beer?”

And the thing is, I do. I want to drink a beer and feel loose and free and not have it go warm in my hands while I sit by a bonfire alone. I nod and say, “I would love one.”

“Good.” He seems to relax a little around the shoulders. “Me too.”

Inside, the house is crowded, smoky, loud—everything I usually hate—but it all feels a little exciting. Especially when Mark looks back and takes my hand and says, “Follow me,” and leads me through the crowd to a cooler full of beer, where he doesn’t drop my hand as he grabs two bottles by the neck. He leads me out the other side of the house, and there is something about his pulling me forward that feels so incredible. Because I wish that I were being guided a bit more through life, that I didn’t always feel as if I were drifting, like an untied balloon that someone didn’t even realize was slipping away.

We end up on a big deck that overlooks the bay and the dock, where I can see some pasty bodies, clearly naked, doing repeated cannonballs and jackknifes and generally whooping it up.

“This isn’t my usual scene,” Mark says, “for the record.” He opens one of the beers and holds it out to me, and my hand is warm from his touch.

“No?” I take the beer. “What is?”

“Good question,” he says; then he takes a swig of beer and I do the same and already I don’t want the night to end.

MONDAY, JULY 15

SAN FRANCISCO

I don’t want to go to work.

I really and deeply do
not
want to go to work.

But I have to. I can’t avoid Keyon forever.

And of course I need the money and would never leave Key and his dad, Joe, in the lurch with no notice, et cetera whatever, but if I could get away with faking a broken arm and not have it not be an obvious avoidance tactic, I would.

It’s muggy out, for San Francisco, and the ride downtown on the L Taraval (aka the Hell Taraval) is gross. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window, I feel like I’m gross, too. My hair isn’t growing out its last cheap cut very gracefully and is basically a frizz ball. The dark-red polish I put on for the party is already chipping. I didn’t have time to shave my legs this morning, or yesterday morning, or the morning before that, and the hairs prickle against my jeans.

Mostly I feel gross inside.

On the train, I narrate to Ebb in my head….

So, yeah, I went to the party. There were way too many people packed into Yasmin Adibi’s little Bernal Heights house, music bumping, and within like five minutes of getting there I already had a headache. Zoe drove but immediately peeled off when she saw Melissa Birch, one of her arty friends who graduated last year. “Mel!” she screamed (when I say “screamed” I mean it), and that’s basically the last I saw of her until we left.

It felt like half an hour before I squeezed through the crowd and made it to the back door so I could escape into the yard. Typical San Francisco summer night weather—cool and foggy, enough to keep the outdoor crowd pretty thin, which, you know, fine by me.

I found a rusty lawn chair away from the cluster of smokers, and sat on that, and looked up to the sky and, I don’t know, just felt so lost all of a sudden. Okay, not all of a
sudden
sudden, because I’d felt that way most of the day. We went to Trader Joe’s—yes, the whole family at once, it’s what we do on Saturdays, and I’m sure it’s a frightening sight for the other customers—and P.J. opened a bag of chili-lime pistachios (have you had those? they’re yumm-eee) and got them all over the floor. I picked them up while this young, hip couple stepped over the whole scene, looking at each other like “And this is the problem with our country.” (Do you know that look I’m talking about? It’s pretty common around here. I don’t know about in NJ.)

And I said to my mom, “I don’t understand why we all have to come. Why can’t
you
do it, like a regular mom? Or send me? Or Dad? It’s groceries. Why does it have to be this giant ordeal?”

Ebb, do I have to tell you the look on her face? Like: Ouch. “Ordeal?”

“Yes,” say I. “It’s an ordeal.”

“Funny, I’ve been thinking of it as a tradition. One you won’t be a part of soon.”

And she pushed her cart away from me.

Well, so this was my state of mind at the party. Then I beat myself up about it, you know, like thinking,
What’s wrong with you, Lauren, that you can’t even have fun at a
party
?

And that is the moment Keyon appeared in the yard and sat on a stump next to my chair. (It really did feel like he “appeared” more than “arrived.”) “I didn’t know you were coming to this thing.”

“I didn’t know
you
were.”

He shrugged. Keyon looks very cool when he shrugs, by the way. Like he can take or leave the whole world. Not like when I shrug and probably look like an indecisive flake. “I was gonna. Mention it, you know, but then I was like…” He looked at me and shrugged again.

I finished his thought. “But then you were like, what if Lauren isn’t invited and it’s all awkward?”

“Right,” he said, putting his finger against the side of his nose, something his dad does all the time. “You want me to get you a drink? Yas is fully equipped. She’s showing Zoe and Mel how to make martinis.”

“Great. I guess I’m driving us home.”

He got up off the stump and said, “I’m gonna get something. I can bring you a soda?”

“Water would be awesome.”

When he came back with water for me and beer for him, he sat down and asked me if I ever drink.

And Ebb, I’ll tell you what I told him and I hope you don’t think I’m the boringest person in the world. It’s not like I have anything against drinking. But I promised my parents I wouldn’t until I was twenty-one. In the interest of being a law-abiding citizen.

Keyon got it. “And setting a good example for… however many you got. Brothers and sisters and whatnot.” He pulled the tab off his beer and threw it into the bushes. Then he stared out at nothing and said, “That’s kinda low class, huh?” and got up and went into the bushes, like
in
to them, until all I could see were his legs. When he came back out he said, “I can’t find it.”

And he smiled this sheepish smile that reminded me of Jack, when he’s in trouble but not bad trouble, and I’m not sure, but my heart or stomach sort of did something, and I think that was the moment. Which led to the next moment, and the next one, and I’m sorry if I’m being unnecessarily suspenseful but I’m still figuring out what happened and telling it carefully helps.

He came back to the stump, and stretched his long legs out in front of him and rubbed a smudge off the side of his sneaker. “So I’m serious about selling that collectible stuff online.” (
Long story
, I add to my imaginary Ebb letter.) “Are you in?”

“What exactly would my role be?” I was feigning interest, sort of, to keep him there.

“Same as me. Finding shit. Pricing shit. Selling shit. Mailing shit.”

“Sounds… unsanitary.” (This is me, making a joke. I know.) “Yeah, I’m in.” Why not? More time to hang out with him, and maybe earn some pocket money.

“Keyon!” someone yelled from behind us, from the smoker crowd. “Key, come over here and light it up.”

He lifted his beer. “Nah, I’m good.”

“It’s okay,” I said, shoving my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. “You don’t have to sit here and keep me company. I fully realize I’m no fun right now.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?”

The way he said it was nice, though. It’s hard to describe. Caring, I guess.

I shook my head. “Change.” Then before I could stop myself, I was crying. Like the quivering chin and tears spilling over and my nose filling so I had to keep sniffling. “It’s just… hard.”

“Oh, yeah, well. Change.” I wasn’t looking at him right then, but I sensed him swig his beer, and heard him clear his throat. “Who needs that shit.”

I wanted to be able to laugh, Ebb. I wanted to shrug it off, cool like him, and then go in and watch Zoe shake up a martini. But the weight of it was on me. The more I cried, the sadder I felt about leaving. I kept picturing Jack and his sly little smile. That made me cry harder, and pretty soon, there I am, holding my jacket sleeves up to my face like the kind of drama-at-party girl I can’t stand, and rocking back and forth and wishing to hell I were home in bed.

And I
know
it’s not like I’m going to the other side of the world. I
know
that. So what’s wrong with me? If I can’t handle this, what’s going to happen if I leave the state for grad school? Or get married or join the circus or whatever?

“Hey,” Keyon said softly. “It’s okay. I mean, don’t, like, lose it.” He wasn’t saying it in a guy-freaking-out-in-the-face-of-emotions way. “You do this now and all these nosy punks are going to come over and ask what’s wrong, and you don’t want that, do you?”

No, I didn’t.

Still, I cried harder.

“For real, Lo. Keep it together.”

He was being so
nice
, the way he was saying it. Truly looking out for me. Truly knowing me and that I would hate that kind of attention. His voice was tender. And he came around and knelt in front of me and put one big hand on each of my knees and kept saying, “Keep it together. There you go. Take a breath now.”

The way it worked was: My arm sort of reached out to his shoulder and rested there. Then my other arm did the same. On their own they did this. And my hands came together on the back of his neck. So he couldn’t get away if he wanted to. The angle kind of forced us to lean closer so he wouldn’t fall over. Our faces were like half an inch apart.

What can you do, Ebb, once you’re in that position, but kiss?

It’s a law of physics or something.

Here’s the thing, though. It wasn’t what I would call romantic. It was more kind of… lusty. Which is fine, I don’t judge it. Sometimes you want to make out with someone, anyone, the way you crave a salty snack. But your salty-snack category of kissers should definitely not be your friends and/or coworkers….

The L lurches to a stop at Montgomery Street, interrupting my fantasy e-mail. I come up out of the Muni station and nearly get run over by a bike messenger, then am promptly told by a homeless guy that I have a nice ass and can I spare some change? I give him two quarters and feel dirty doing it, like I rewarded someone for sexual harassment.

This day is really shaping up.

And now, I have to face the music that is my injudicious kiss.

Keyon is pouring mustard into the sandwich station tray when I walk in. “Hey,” he says, barely looking up.

“Hey.” I pass him, go to the back, put my messenger bag in my cubby, and grab my apron. When I get to the counter I ask how we are on tomatoes.

“We could probably slice another case before rush.”

“On it.” I give him a super-dorky thumbs-up and imagine him having the same regretful thoughts I am.

Except I’m not really that regretful.