Slip of the Tongue (2 page)

I wave a hand. “No—it was funny.”

“I’m just trying to say I like it curly—I mean, it was nice earlier too, when you had it straight. So, just in general, it’s . . . nice.” He scratches his jaw. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.” He produces two twenty-dollar bills from his pocket. “You saved me this morning.”

I thank him and stick the money in my robe. “How was it?”

“Words can’t describe.”

“What’d you have?”

“All the breakfast,” he says.

“Did you get the hash browns like I said?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I’m not exaggerating. I ordered every breakfast item they had.”

I gape at him. “Seriously?”

“Toast, oatmeal, fruit, orange juice . . .” He pats his stomach. “And while it was mostly good, I can now definitively say, hash browns are the best thing on the menu. Dipped in egg yolk—”

I bounce on the balls of my feet. “I do the same thing.”

“You’re a sunny-side-up girl?” he asks.

I nod. “If I wanted my eggs scrambled, I’d go to a tanning booth.”

He has the decency to laugh at my obscure joke before his expression turns serious. “Don’t even get me started on over easy.”

“Never trust anyone who orders their eggs over easy.”

This time, we both laugh. Ginger’s tags clink as she sticks her nose between us. Water drips from my hair. “Do you want to come in? I’m about to start dinner.”

It’s not entirely true. Monday nights, I usually raid the freezer or heat up leftovers from the weekend. Cooking for myself feels decadent, but tonight, I’m not cooking for myself. My neighbor is here.

He glances down the hallway, toward his apartment, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “I, ah . . . I really shouldn’t,” he says. “I still have a lot of unpacking to do.”

“Oh. All right.” I try not to let the sting of his rejection show on my face. I barely know him. Surely, he has friends of his own to eat dinner with. I pull Ginger out of the doorway by her collar. “Okay, then. Thanks for paying me back so fast.”

He smiles. “Sure.”

I shut the door and return to the bathroom, but I only dry my hair until it’s no longer dripping. It’s been a while since I wore it curly. It’ll be a nice change. I mentally list what’s saved on the DVR. Even though I watch plenty of TV, there’s a lot to choose from. I should probably find a hobby of my own, but sometimes, nothing beats staying in. Especially on a cold Monday night.

Once I’m in my sweats, I pour myself a glass of red wine and open the fridge. I could make something nutritious, but now all I can think of is breakfast food. Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Sunny-side-up eggs. Hash browns. I wonder gleefully about the look on my favorite waitress’s face when the man across the hall ordered everything on the menu.

Ginger perks up from where she’s lying in the middle of the kitchen floor. A second later, there’s another knock at the door. She barks once and leaves the room.

I react the same way. Straighten up. Get wary. I don’t know the neighbors very well. At thirty-one, everyone on this floor is nearly twice my age anyway. We say hello, and that’s it. It’s intentional.

Except for this man, who’s on my doorstep for the second time in twenty minutes. It’s possible I’ve said more words to him than anyone else in the building. I don’t open up all the way since I’m not wearing a bra. Yes, I decide—he
is
a hunk. It’s a good word to describe him. “Hello again, 6A.”

“So,” he says, “I thought it over. I haven’t unpacked the kitchen yet. It’s not really my domain. Plus, my heater is still blowing like I’m made of plastic and it wants to melt me.” He billows his t-shirt, the same one from earlier. He looks ready for summer.

“Mine’s off,” I warn. “It’s cold in here.”

He groans. “You might as well be talking dirty to me.”

I arch an eyebrow and invite him in. “I’m making stir-fry.” I hadn’t planned on it, but there are vegetables in the fridge and leftover Thai ginger chicken from last night. “Are you a vegetarian?”

“Babe, no.”

I suppress a smile at his deadpan response. I wouldn’t have believed him if he’d said yes. “I didn’t think so.”

“Good old-fashioned carnivore here. Hunting, gathering, bring it back to the cave—” He puts one foot in the apartment before he enters, as if the floor is water and he’s testing the temperature.

“I get the idea.” Ginger’s happy to have him here, but she’d wag her tail for an axe murderer. I close the door behind him.

“Nice place,” he says when we’re out of the entryway. “Like mine but livable.”

“Thanks.” I point to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” I go into the bedroom, shut the door, and throw on a bra under my sweatshirt.

When I come out, he’s flipping through Vogue magazine, his long legs spread out in front of him. He wrinkles his forehead. “Some of these outfits . . .”

“I work in fashion and beauty PR,” I explain. “My clients are on the beauty side—make up, skin cream, that kind of thing—but I have to keep up with the trends.”

He shuts the magazine and replaces it under the coffee table. “I won’t pretend to understand it.”

I walk into the kitchen, and he follows. Some of the vegetables in the fridge look questionable. I take out a bag of wilting spinach. He won’t know the difference. “Can I get you some Pinot Noir?”

“Not much of a wine drinker,” he says from behind me. “I wouldn’t turn down one of those, though.” He points to a six-pack of Sorachi Ace on the shelf.

I hesitate a second. They don’t belong to me, but I don’t think it matters. I pull one out and hand it to him. “Opener’s in the drawer left of the sink.”

“Thanks. Never had this kind. Is it good?”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t drink a lot of beer.” I line up the vegetables and start chopping.

It’s quiet for a few seconds, except for his gulp-gulping as he drinks and the tap-tap of my knife on the cutting board.

“How is it?” I ask.

“Just what I need. My apartment is depressingly alcohol-free at the moment.” He pulls out a chair, but seems to change his mind and stays standing. “I need to make a trip to the grocery store.”

“It’s from Brooklyn Brewery. The beer.” I slide mushrooms from the board into a wok. “What brings you to Gramercy Park anyway?”

He coughs. “Work.”

I don’t ask what he does. I still don’t even know his name. “Are you new to the city?”

“Actually, I went to NYU, just like you.”

I look up from the bell pepper I’m about to julienne. “You did? When?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t make me answer that,” he says, but he does anyway. “I graduated ten years ago.”

“I’m almost there too.” For some reason, his green eyes sparkle, and I have to return to the vegetables to keep from getting flustered. “Then what?”

“Then I did some things. Moved to the ’burbs. Now I’m back.”

“Most people go to the suburbs and stay.”

“I’m aware.” I sense a hint of bitterness, and then it’s gone. “I’m one of those rare birds who’s happy to be back in the chaos.”

“Well, you picked a good neighborhood. I never want to live anywhere else.” I put the vegetables in the wok and get the chicken ready. It might not be enough food for him. One of the only things I really know about this man is that he has a large enough appetite to work his way through an entire meal group. You might guess it by his height and muscular physique, but there doesn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on him.

“So, how do you even order everything on a menu?” I ask, pushing things around the pan with a spatula. I think I would’ve laughed my ass off to see it with my own eyes. “Do you start at the top and have the waitress write each thing down? Or does she just hand the cook a menu?”

When he doesn’t respond, I turn around. He’s wandered over to the desk in the corner. There’s nothing special about it—it holds the typical office items. Neon Post-It notes, a mug of pens, a pile of mail. He isn’t looking at any of that, though.

He picks up a framed photo of my husband and me on our wedding day. Nathan, tall and broad in his tuxedo, gazes down at me while I smile at the camera. Our dark hair and eyes complement each other and contrast my wedding gown.

“Let me guess—your twin sister?” he asks.

I glance at him. His green eyes, sweet and warm up until now, are narrowed on me. I’ve known him less than a day, but I can read the shift in his mood. Because I’m married? He shouldn’t be disappointed, but judging by his closed expression, I think he might be. If so, I’m not wrong that there’s been some strange electric charge between us today. And I wonder if I should’ve invited him in.

My laugh is forced, uncomfortable. “No. That’s me.”

“You didn’t mention—” He looks back at the frame. “Divorced?”

“No.” I hold up my left hand and wiggle my fingers. “I’m wearing a ring.”

He looks. “You weren’t earlier.”

“This morning? I had gloves on. Or you mean after my shower?”

He clears his throat and gently returns the photo to its spot. “Where is he?”

I focus back on our dinner. “Not sure.”

I haven’t checked my phone since before my shower. I forgot. Most likely, there’s a text waiting. I don’t know why Nathan continues to let me know where he is when he goes out, though. That small communication will probably shut down soon.

“Either out with his friends or at a homeless shelter,” I guess. Realizing how that sounds, I quickly add, “Serving food, I mean.”

“Of course he is,” he mutters. He comes back to my side of the kitchen. “Is it court mandated?”

I smile, even though I’m not sure if he’s joking. “No. He volunteers once or twice a month.” It’s an automatic response, but come to think of it, it’s no longer accurate. Lately, he’s been there every week.

Nate does good work as a grant writer for the Family-kind Association, a youth-oriented nonprofit with homeless shelters and soup kitchens around the city. Earlier this year, he turned down a promotion to Communications Director a few days after we found out about his dad’s lung cancer. Me, I sold out the first chance I got. I was offered a promotion months ago, and I accepted on the spot. I never had money growing up, and I want to help myself. Nathan never had money, and he wants to help others.

My neighbor takes a swig of his beer—Nathan’s beer, actually. My husband brought it home from Brooklyn after a tour of the brewery this weekend. It occurs to me Nathan might not want this man in his kitchen drinking his beer. I brush the thought away. Unlike me, Nathan enjoys being social. If I let him, we’d have company over more often.

“Does he normally go out on Monday nights?”

“Mondays and Wednesdays he goes bowling with friends—sometimes he’ll go by the shelter first.”

“And you stay here by yourself?”

“Why not? I enjoy the alone time. I’ll read a book or whatever.” I don’t mention that
whatever
normally means watching Project Runway or binging on Netflix shows. For some reason, I don’t want him to think I’m a couch potato.

“This happens two nights every week?” he asks.

“Yes. And sometimes weekends.”

“Weekends?” A pause. “What do you mean?”

I shrug. “Like, some Sundays, he plays pick-up basketball.”

His silence is telling. It encroaches on my good mood like fog. We never really agreed to weekends, Nathan and I. A year or so ago, I read somewhere separate hobbies are good for a relationship, and Nathan and I were always glued at the hip. Nathan didn’t like the idea of spending even one evening apart. Which is why I catch myself wondering when his absence spread into the weekend and became a regular thing.

“And that works?” he interrupts my thoughts. “For your marriage?”

I pull two plates from a cupboard. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

“Really?” He sounds unconvinced. “You prefer to spend time away from each other . . .?”

I set the dishes on the counter and pause. “When you put it that way, no.”

“How else would you put it?”

“We have our own lives.” And those separate lives are bleeding into places they shouldn’t. Like the bedroom. My husband hasn’t touched me in two months, and he hasn’t given me a reason why. When I ask, he shuts down, and I’m afraid pushing him will make it worse. But how can he stop wanting me all of a sudden, practically overnight? At first, I’d convinced myself it was stress. Unlike me or most people I know, Nathan gets emotionally attached to his work. I never thought it would last this long. It’s hard not to take it personally, two months without fucking.

“What did you do this weekend?”

“Yesterday, Nathan went beer tasting with friends. I went to a movie with my brother and his daughter. Nathan—that’s my husband. He hates matinees. He’d rather be outside.”

“And you hate breweries?”

“No.”

“You hate his friends?”

“No.” I dump stir-fry from the pan onto the plates. Ginger hears the scrape of the spatula and comes in to lie under the kitchen table. “Couples don’t need to spend every minute together. We can have our own lives.”

He holds out his hands, and I pass him our meals. He sets the dishes down, opens the takeout menu drawer, and closes it. He finds the silverware in the next one.

“You don’t need to—”

“Will he mind that I’m here?” he asks.

I open my mouth to respond. When it comes to other men, Nate usually just teases me. I give it right back to him. Plenty of women have shown interest in him, some even in front of my face. I’ve never had to worry, though. “He’s not really the jealous type. I don’t think.”

“You don’t think?” he asks. “Don’t you know?”

“Not really. I don’t give him reason to be.” We look at each other a moment. My face warms. I don’t want anyone other than my husband. Nathan knows that. And I know he only wants me, even if he hasn’t shown it lately.

“All right,” he says. “If he doesn’t mind, then I’ll stay.”

I’m being silly. It means nothing that he’s here. Nathan would love to come home and meet a new neighbor our age. He’d probably invite him out. I wave him off. “Yes, of course you will. I insist.”

Somehow, he’s already set the table with placemats, silverware, and napkins. I’m not used to having the table set for me. I’m not sure I even like it. Nathan loves to come in and start eating right away. He can never get enough of anything I make him.