If We Lived Here (3 page)

Badoop!
Nick checked his phone—a text from Emma:
Scored client this a.m. 14 yrs old, mom = nutcase. Also, Mrs. C called Gen for rec. TOTAL nutcase. But she’s calling references, so a good sign, right?

He thought about calling back, but Emma kept her cell on silent at work, and reaching her office line required a ten-minute chat with Genevieve first; Nick wasn’t in the mood. He texted back:
Brava on the client. You’re a star! Good sign, yes.

A twinge of nausea gripped at Nick’s gut and he dropped into one of the child-sized chairs. Mrs. Caroline was a concern—he worried how she’d respond if he and Emma needed an exterminator or a plumbing repair. But the queasiness felt like more than just nerves over a landlady.

It was a new variable—living with Emma. Nick breathed deeply, wondering whether the new arrangement would be like adding sunlight or taking it away. Would their relationship flourish or wither? He wished he could keep a control going, too. Because Nick liked the control. He was wary of taking their strong relationship and testing it under new conditions, as if their lives were some kind of science experiment.

To calm himself, Nick glanced at the schedule he’d mapped out for his class—each day divided into forty-five-minute blocks of reading, math, et cetera—a routine that was soothing in its structure. Nick marveled when Emma rattled off all she had going on in a particular day, always different from the previous one. She loved the unpredictable and—as much as she complained about it—relished the crises of her high-strung clients.

Sweet, brilliant, wonderful Emma, who’d been pushing for months to share a home with him. It was true they were both sick of lugging clothes and toiletries and everything else back and forth from one apartment to the other, uptown and downtown and back. And it did seem ludicrous to be shelling out two separate rents when on most nights one of their beds lay fallow. These were the sorts of details they discussed, and the kinds of reasons Nick’s buddies cited for shacking up with their girlfriends. And yet, Nick wasn’t convinced these minor annoyances added up to a case for such a major life change. Again, why shake up what was working well?

Nick peered into Mensa’s cage. “It’s me and you, buddy.” Glassy eyes blinked back at him. When Nick had bought the pet two years ago, he was told gerbils were social creatures and preferred to live in pairs. So he’d gotten Mensa a companion. But the duo had been vicious together, hissing and fighting until Nick had been forced to give one away to a teacher down the hall.

Nick believed there was something to his pea-brained pet’s preference for his own space. Nick, too, had been living alone for nearly a decade, and he was wary of abandoning what Emma derisively called his bachelor pad. He knew the stereotype—that men were commitment-phobes, from Mars, et cetera—but Nick felt the opposite. He believed himself so committed that he felt terrified of moving in with Emma and having her discover some so-called deal-breaker. It was one thing for her to crash at his place and have to navigate piles of comic books, or to spot a month-old block of tofu festering in his fridge, or an X-rated clip loaded up on his laptop (she minded the rotting food more than the porn). But it was quite another thing for Nick’s unwholesome habits to contaminate Emma’s own home. A home that would also be his, in a new location with a new layout and new quirks and surprises and frustrations. Nick’s stomach flipped. Still, all of these worries had become moot when Emma eventually made it clear that, if he didn’t give in to the experiment in cohabitation, Nick was going to lose her.

The loudspeaker emitted a beep, then hissed with static. “Attention, empty school. Paging Mr. O’Hare. Mr. Nicholas O’Hare, please report to the principal’s office, on the double!” Nick grunted. The voice belonged to Carl, who’d just been promoted to assistant principal. But Nick didn’t mind the excuse for a break, and when he arrived at Carl’s office, his friend had his feet propped on the desk and was cracking open a beer. “Want one? It’s just past noon, so we’re good.”

“Where’s Lara?”

“Our beloved principal is at some workshop all day. Something about the state’s new standards of excellence—in other words, blow me. They tried to make me go, but I talked my way out of it. More important matters to attend to here.” Carl raised his can.

“Clearly. Pass me one of those.”

“So, I hear Emma’s finally roped you into the next big step of relationship-hood.”

“Did that landlady call you?”

“Oh, you mean the C.I.A. agent with the epic list of questions about your personal character and criminal record? Yes, she certainly did. Congrats, dude.”

“Thanks.”

“With me and Suze, it only took six months for her to wear me down into living together. Two years in, we were bound for life and Suze had grown obese with the fetus that would become our whiny, diarrhea-prone, bank account–draining progeny.”

“Nice talk, Carl.”

“I love the rugrat, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But you’re a tougher case, Mr. Totebag-carrying, Tree-hugging Marlboro Man, always going on about how much you care about those snot-covered students of ours. You’re not an easy one to wrangle in, are you?”

“Is there a point to this meeting, or were you just testing out how your voice sounded over the loudspeaker?”

“Mostly the latter.”

“Narcissist.”

“I’ll admit it, Nicky boy, the power’s gone to my head.
Mwa-ha-ha!
” He threw his head back. “But I also wanted to toast your blind leap into the deep pit that some call relationship maturity. Cheers, to you and Emma!”

They glugged the remainder of their beers, and Carl unleashed a powerful belch.

“So,” Nick asked, “what did you say to that landlady, anyway?”

“I told her the truth, that you’re a gentleman and a scholar.” Nick felt a small blip of joy. If he was resigned to move in with Emma, at least they’d end up in that apartment that was almost too good to be true.

Chapter
3

E
mma drew seven tiles from the Scrabble pouch, then arranged and rearranged the letters on her rack until a seven-letter word emerged: BURGERS. A bingo on her first turn! She laid the tiles down on the board, and tallied her points: 76.

“On second thought, I think I’m too tired to play,” said Nick.

“No way, dude! You’re the one who convinced me.”

Nick sighed, examined his tiles, then dropped FAX above and slightly to the left of BURGERS, also creating AB and XU vertically.

“Thirty points, not bad.”

When three of the next five of Emma’s words were diner-related—FRIES, SHAKE, and CHEESE—Nick said, “Any chance you’re hungry?”

“Affirmative.” Emma liked to send messages via Scrabble moves. Nick preferred a more straightforward mode of play, laying down a boring but strategic two- or three-letter word and cleaning up in points. “Let’s do takeout from the Meatball Shop.”

“Em, you’re averaging once a day there. Soon you might turn into a meatball.”

“I’m just trying to enjoy as much meat as possible before I’m sentenced to a life of seitan and portobellos.” It was one of Emma’s concessions for the move-in, that she’d respect Nick’s preference for a meat-free apartment. “Although I am looking forward to the slimming results of tofu and kale. Five or six veggie balls for you?”

“Five’s good.”

Emma swiped open her phone, but heard no dial tone. “Hello?”

“Ems, thank God you’re there.”

“Annie?” It was her best friend, sounding more frantic than usual. “What, do you live in my phone now?”

“Huh? Listen, I just found out there’s a weight limit for my suitcase, and I need you to help me figure out which shoes to ditch: hiking boots, wedges, or kitten heels?”

“I thought you guys were going on an African safari.”

“We are, but there’s supposed to be this big banquet at the end. I want to look cute! I’ve spent months putting together my honeymoon wardrobe, and only now do I find out I can’t bring it all. This is a disaster.”

“Annie, this is not a disaster. Tomorrow we’ll go over it together, okay? I’m with Nick tonight.”

“Hey, remind him to bring a flask this weekend. I don’t know what the guys have planned, but Eli said a flask was imperative.”

“The flask?” Nick whispered. “She’s already e-mailed me twice about it.”

“Flask packed, check! Anything else?” Emma’s stomach was growling.

“Yeah, about a million things. I’m only getting married in seventy-two hours!”

“Put a pin in those concerns and we’ll deal with every little thing in the morning.”

“You’re the best maid of honor ever.”

“I know I am. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Emma hung up, called in the dinner order, then flopped onto the couch.

“How’s she holding it together?” Nick asked.

“Just barely. But who expected anything other than Annie Bridezilla Blum?”

“She’s why you’re so good at your job, you know. You can deal with all those crazy parents because you’ve had a lifetime of practice with Annie.”

“You’re right. Prepping for a dozen college interviews is nothing compared to what Annie used to put me through before a middle school Snowball Dance.”

“Yeesh, Annie as a preteen.” Nick shook his head. “It’s your turn.”

Emma switched her theme: She laid down the words VEIL and SPEECH, then cleaned up with BOUQUETS, right through the triple-word score for 116 points.

“Think it’s safe to say I won?” Emma asked.

“I do.”

“I do, too.”

“You set me up for that,” Nick said.

“I did. Just like you set me up for the triple-word score, and the win. Boo-ya!”

“And now, you may kiss your poor opponent.” And they did, until it was time to pick up their food.

On Emma’s way to the Meatball Shop, Annie called again. “I didn’t know you found an apartment!” Her shrieking made Emma jerk the phone away from her ear.

“You have a lot going on, Annie. I didn’t want to add—”

“Thanks for listing me as a reference, by the way. It’s an honor and a privilege. And the place sounds unreal! I know you were worried about having enough space to breathe with Nick, and what did she say, eight hundred square feet? Wow! With hardwood floors and a skylight? Killer! I’m a little concerned that the bathroom hasn’t been redone since the eighties, but we can re-grout and spruce it right up. Have you thought about paint colors? I’ve seen this gorgeous Robin’s Egg swatch that I think would be great for the bedroom, seems very you and Nick. I’ll bring it this weekend.”

“Annie, slow down. First of all, you are not bringing paint swatches for my apartment to your own wedding. Secondly, how do you know all this stuff?”

“Oh, Mrs. C and I got to chatting. We have a lot in common. We both prefer the Whitney over MoMA and we both want to be best friends with the Dowager Countess on
Downton Abbey
—no offense to my real bestie. Mrs. Caroline seems like she really cares about you guys. She was so interested. I think you’re a shoo-in.”

“I knew you could charm her.” This is why Emma loved Annie, because as impossible as she could be, she would also do anything for a friend. Emma spotted the hostess and, covering her speaker, whispered, “Yes, Emma Feit. Five veggie, six lamb.”

“Ems, you are
not
eating meatballs three days before my wedding, are you? That dress of yours is skintight.”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“
Blerg
. Okay, enjoy your greasy dinner. Kindly go for a run afterward. Ta-ta!”

Back home Emma found Nick crouched over a notepad. “So I concede that you won either way,” he said, “but with our superior version of point scoring, you only beat me by thirty-two, instead of the sixty-eight-point slaughtering you delivered with traditional scoring.”

“
Only
thirty-two, huh?” Emma kissed Nick on the forehead and dug into the take-out bag.

Together Emma and Nick had developed what they thought was a fairer way to score Scrabble. Based on facility of use and frequency of appearance, they believed that Qs and Zs should be worth eight, not ten, points; that Cs should be four, not three; that Ys should be five, not four; and that Us should be two, not one. They disagreed only on the V; Emma thought it should be five, but Nick felt it was aptly weighted at four points. For her twenty-ninth birthday last year, Nick had designed Emma a poster of their scoring (he valued the V at 4.5), framed it, and hung it above her bed. Emma was so touched that she’d insisted on showing off the poster to everyone who came over. Most people deemed it super-sweet or super-dorky. Except Emma’s brother and his wife, that is.

“Oh, we used to have board game nights, didn’t we, Max?” Alysse, Emma’s sister-in-law, had remarked during a visit. “Gin rummy and Monopoly.”
Those games aren’t at all like Scrabble,
Emma had thought but not said. “That was before we had real responsibilities, of course.”

“Well, I think it’s cute that you guys spend so much time playing games,” Max had added, patting Emma’s head like she was a puppy instead of his younger sister. “It’s whimsical.” The implication seemed to be that the way she spent her time was insubstantial, and Emma had fumed. Her brother often managed to diminish whatever she felt proud of or excited about. That memory still gave Emma a twinge.

“You know,” Nick said now, reaching for his dinner, “I think our point system has subconsciously affected my play. Whenever I recalculate the score using our version I always come out ahead.”

“So that’s your excuse, huh?” Emma dug into a lamb meatball, and with mouth full, added, “How many more times do you think I’ll hear from Annie tonight?”

As if on cue, her phone rang. She swiped it open and, still chewing, said, “Annie, I told you we’d figure it all out tomorrow.”

“Excuse me, Emma?”

Emma nearly choked on her food. “Oh, Mrs. Goldstein, I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else. How are you this evening?” Ever the professional, Emma had all her clients’ voices memorized. It was important to let the Hellis know how much she valued them. She chastised herself for being so careless.

“Good. Well, listen, we have somewhat of a doozy on our hands. We just received Isaac’s fall course schedule, and he got Mr. Trundle for A.P. World.”

“I see.” Emma had dealt with this issue before with her students from Riverdale; she knew that Mr. Trundle didn’t believe in grade inflation, and—arguably a graver crime for her clients—didn’t tolerate overinvolved parents.

“I’m sure he’s a fine teacher,” Mrs. Goldstein continued, “but I’ve heard rumors about suspect comments he’s made regarding the Israel-Palestine situation. And this class covers World War II, you know,
the Holocaust
”—this last part she whispered—“so I wouldn’t want to put Isaac in any uncomfortable situations. . . .” She trailed off, and Emma rolled her eyes. There was no way Riverdale would hire an anti-Semite to its faculty, as Mrs. Goldstein seemed to be insinuating, but these parents always had to feel justified in their special requests.

“I hear you,” Emma said. “Let me put a call into the school. Mr. Trundle tends to teach A.P. in the afternoons, and I’ve had luck in the past suggesting that a student’s right-brain processing is keener in the morning.”

“Emma Feit, you’re a star. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Without me, you’d have a kid who’d know what it was like to get a B, a kid who’d have an easier time dealing with real life someday when he won’t just be able to hire someone to make all his problems go away.
Emma didn’t say this, of course, especially since she knew she was part of the problem. But she also knew that some of these kids
would
in fact grow up to live in a world where they
could
keep hiring someone to disappear their problems; so, she figured, why not take advantage for a cut of the profits? Anyway, that’s what Emma told herself when she was up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night debating the ethics of her job and questioning her long-ago flight from academia. (At other times, Emma found these twinges of guilt reassuring—they would make it easier one day when she’d decide to flee this job, as she inevitably would when some shiny new opportunity presented itself.)

As soon as Emma got rid of Mrs. Goldstein, her phone rang again. This time she checked the caller ID:
Annie.

“So Eli’s staying at his parents’ place. They said they want to bond with him as a single man for the last time. Lame-slash-sweet, right? Ems, will you please come sleep over at my place? I’m freaking out and don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Well, Nick is down here at my apartment.”

“Tell Nick he can get a six-pack and an on-demand movie, my treat. Or leave him your Facebook password so he can cybersnoop. Come on, please?”

Nick was furiously shaking his head. Emma turned away. “All right, fine. I’ll be over there soon.”

She hung up, and Nick groaned. “If that girl asked you to hide the body of someone she just murdered, you’d start clearing out your closet.”

“If it was three days before her wedding, yeah, I probably would. But guess what? She’d do the same for me.”

“I should’ve brought Mensa over to keep me company. He could watch me play video games and then we’d cuddle together under your covers.”

“Gross.” Emma shuddered at the thought.

“The little guy would be so cozy, curled up on your pillow.” Nick contorted his facial features into a surprisingly realistic depiction of a gerbil, and Emma pelted a plastic fork at him. “Nice, Em. I actually think I’ll head home. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

 

When Annie swung open the door, the fact that her face was covered in blue goop didn’t stop her from leaning in to kiss Emma hello. She was wearing oversized shorts (probably Eli’s) and a sports bra, and her hair was twisted up into a shower cap.

“Why does it reek of mayonnaise in here?” Emma asked. “I thought you’d sworn off fat all month.”

“To eat, yes. That’s my hair mask. It’s for shine and luster, and condiments are cheaper than the spa stuff.”

“Yuck.”

“I have ten minutes left of my Insanity workout. Come and squat with me.”

“No way, my butt isn’t doing anything but planting itself onto your couch. But first I’m raiding the fridge.” In the freezer Emma found a rice-milk coconut bar, probably the closest thing to junk food Eli and Annie had. She tore it open and plunked onto the couch, which afforded her a first-rate view of Annie’s calorie-blasting contortions.

“Eli would kill you if he saw you eating that there,” Annie said between gasps.

“Good thing he’s not here then. Who buys a white leather sofa, anyway?”

“Eli’s boss has the same one, and he was inspired. It’s imported from Italy.”

“Of course it is. Whatever happened to that futon from your old place, the one we scored on Avenue A after that mile-long bar crawl about a million years ago? Remember we paid those guys ten bucks to haul it up five flights to your apartment?”

“God, they should’ve insisted on at least twenty. When I moved I put that ratty old thing right back where it came from, down on the curb. Good riddance.”

“It’s exhausting me just looking at you.” Annie had moved on to burpees, manically launching herself into the air, squatting down, flinging her legs back into a plank, performing a push-up, then catapulting her body back up for more. “Does Eli freak out that you’re sweating on the rug, which he probably had airlifted in from Persia?”

“Ha ha. You forget, my friend, I don’t sweat.”

Emma reached out a foot and nudged Annie mid-jump, causing her to stumble. “Hey, clumsy, you don’t sweat, and apparently you don’t have any coordination, either.”

“Ems, how dare you!” Annie stopped and caught her breath. Her flush overlaid with the blue goop gave her face a green sheen. “If I broke my ankle right then, you’d be responsible for carrying me down the aisle on Sunday.”